The God Wars: Growing Darkness
by TheAmateur
Summary: A world needs Order and Chaos to survive. In the absence of zealotry, these two forces can coexist to keep a world civilized, but flexible enough to bring about change. The problem is that there will always be zealots. And Gods are always the worst ones.
1. Chapter 1: Face of Darkness

Chapter One: Face of Darkness

The hooded woman was beautiful by any standards. Thin, well-rounded, and graceful, she appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, her features sharp and, for lack of a simpler adjective, perfect. She wore a crimson mage's gown and a red cloak, complete with a hood. Her green eyes matched the outfit perfectly.

She strode through the streets of the dead city. Once upon a time, the city had existed in the time of Zaros, the deposed predecessor of Zamorak. Then Zaros's empire had crumbled…leaving this city to die in the Wilderness. Now, it was a necropolis…a city of the dead. All kinds of chaos and evil filth lurked the ruined streets of this place. It was Zamorak's city, now…the place where he resided. He hadn't left the place for years.

The conflicting sight of this stunningly beautiful woman striding through the streets of such a dead and evil place was…mind-boggling. So many nightmarish and dangerous creatures inhabited the necropolis, and many of these stared at the woman as she walked past, making harsh, guttural noises.

The woman did not seem the least bit afraid, though. That was because she _wasn't_. Her lips pursed in something resembling disgust as she passed a group of orks on the main street. She made no attempt to conceal her contempt for the vile creatures Zamorak used for cannon fodder. They barely qualified as life forms, some of them.

At least Humans, even though they were Saradominists, at least they were civilized. And clean; the smell of these animals almost made the woman cringe.

The hooded woman glanced up at the towering structure in the center of the necropolis. It was the Palace of Zamorak, where she had been summoned. It loomed at least a thousand feet high; a tall, dark spire of cold, forbidding black stone. The woman allowed herself a small smile. It had been so long since she had seen Him…

She stopped in her tracks as a low growl dragged her mind back to the present. The leader of orks she had passed by earlier stood in front of her, staring at her. Its friends all stood around her, pressing in threateningly. The ork's growl had been unmistakable; the creatures were known for their violent sexual tendencies.

Still, the woman showed no hint of fear. She gave a thin smile to the lead ork. "I find myself in a particularly magnanimous mood right now." And she was; getting summoned to see Zamorak had put her in a _very_ good mood. But not a particularly merciful one. "So I shall offer you one chance to turn around and walk away. Use it wisely; me offering creatures like yourselves chances to continue your pathetic existence in this world rarely ever happens. Consider yourselves lucky."

The woman was not surprised when the ork simply laughed and stepped forward. It probably hadn't understood half of what the woman had said…well, either way; that wasn't her problem. It was about to become the ork's. The brutish ork seized her by the shoulders, roughly dragging her forward.

The woman looked up into the ork's face, and the creature hesitated for a moment when it saw nothing but malice in her green eyes. The woman's smile widened a fraction, but it was a cold smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. "_Mistake,_" she whispered.

The ork had only a moment to warble in confusion before the woman seized it by the throat. Her hands started to glow and the ork howled as a searing fire tore into its throat. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air as the ork's throat was completely burned through. The head fell to the cobblestones and rolled away while the rest of the body collapsed.

The woman whirled around and clapped her hands. The remaining seven orks all burst into flames. They howled in agony, running this way and that, but the flames quickly overpowered them. When the light and fire cleared away, all that was left were charred skeletons.

The woman paused only to smooth a wrinkle out of her cloak and got on her way once more.

The Palace was surrounded by a moat of lava, crossable only by a single bridge of dark stone that led up to the Palace's entrance. Another figure was waiting on the bridge. He was clad similarly to the woman, only his robes were all black instead of the woman's crimson. He, too, wore a hood over his head, but his face was not human. It was a skull with glowing red eyes.

"Enakhra," the figure in black exchanged nods with the woman.

"Zemouregal," the woman returned the greeting, joining the other Mahjarrat on the bridge and walking across towards the Palace. "Have you received the summons as well?"

Zemouregal growled in the affirmative. "It seems old Thammaron hasn't been quite as successful in the desert as Lord Zamorak had hoped…either way, _something_ has him irked."

"Dear Azzanadra causing trouble down south, again, I presume?" Enakhra chuckled.

"He was helped by Humans," Zemouregal replied, prompting the woman to cock a surprised eyebrow. When Zarosians and Saradominists joined forces, you knew things were about to get interesting. "Specifically by that accursed Centralian Warmaster who has been such a thorn in our side…"

The two Mahjarrat made it to the other side of the bridge and stepped through the entrance gates of the Palace.

"Have you rethought my offer?" Zemouregal asked the female Mahjarrat as the pair walked down the entrance hall towards one of the great stairwells that led up to Zamorak's throne room.

"What do you think?" Enakhra rolled her eyes.

The male Mahjarrat gave a huff of frustration. "Palkeera is dead, Enakhra. You are the last female of our race; if you do not sire offspring with me, we shall go extinct! How many times must I-"

"If you haven't taken the hint that Zamorak is the only one whom I love by now, you are hopelessly dense," Enakhra snapped. "And you are not hopelessly dense, Zemouregal; I know you too well. So please, stop asking. I will not reproduce with you."

"Then you are a fool," Zemouregal sighed. "Zamorak will never reproduce with you, either."

Small motes of lightning ignited around the female Mahjarrat's knuckles as they climbed the stairs. "I would counsel you to choose your words more wisely in the future…you might have an unfortunate accident."

Zemouregal, who was not particularly receptive to thinly-veiled threats, considered retorting but decided against it in the end. He would not want to place bets on his skill against Enakhra's. The she-Mahjarrat was uncanny with the powers of the elements.

The two Mahjarrat fell silent as pushed through the entrance doors of Zamorak's throne room. The chamber itself was a long room. Red flagstones made up the floor, stretching back to a set of tiered steps that led up to a great black throne. The air seemed to grow colder as the Mahjarrat approached the throne, and the light of the torches seemed to dim.

"My lord Zamorak," Zemouregal dropped to a knee and bowed his head. Enakhra did likewise, prostrating herself before her lord and God.

The shadowy figure in the throne stirred and stood up. The shrouds of shadow fell away, revealing a tall, deathly pale man with sharp, cruel features, amber eyes, and two small horns protruding from his forehead. He was dressed in the customary red robes associated with his followers all over the land.

"_Rise_…" the Dark God's voice seemed to emanate throughout the throne room, the words felt as much as they were heard. "No doubt the two of you are wondering why I have called you here…"

Enakhra got back up to her feet, followed quickly by Zemouregal. Neither one of them said anything; a good rule of thumb when talking to Zamorak was to never speak unless he directly addressed you.

"The truth is, I have been getting nothing but bad news from the desert. That ignorant fool Azzanadra has destroyed my army in the desert, with the help of those damned Centralians."

"You wish us to punish-" Zemouregal started to say, but Zamorak silenced him with a sharp glare.

"Thammaron _did_ succeed in breaking the Menaphite Empire; those pathetic sand-dwellers weren't much of a threat to begin with, and they are definitely not a threat any longer. I care nothing for that desert anymore. Centralia is the one thing standing between me and the rest of this world…"

"Give me an army," Zemouregal said. "Let me raise a horde, my lord. I shall sweep those Humans into the sea. Nothing will possibly be able to stand before our…"

Enakhra rolled her eyes, tapping her foot impatiently. And Zemouregal wondered why she never had any desire to reproduce with him. He had to be one of the few individuals she knew who managed to be both brutish _and_ long-winded, two negative traits that rarely came hand-in-hand.

Zamorak interrupted the Mahjarrat once more, this time with a threat. "Speak out of turn one more time, Zemouregal, and I shall put a red-hot cinder in your stomach."

That shut Zemouregal up.

Zamorak continued to speak. "I am sending you east. You will take command of the hordes that I have in place to attack the Hallowlands. The elves and dwarves have retreated from this world and the Menaphite Empire has fallen. Once we destroy the Hallowlands, Centralia will suddenly find itself very much alone…_then_ we shall gather all of our forces, and we shall destroy Saradomin's bastion. Even Entrana shall burn…"

The Dark God's voice quavered with pleasure as he pictured Saradomin's sacred island being torched with unholy fire. "Go, Zemouregal. Go to the staging grounds in the east. My armies await you there."

"It will be done, my lord," Zemouregal straightened up, pulled his hood back over his skull-head, and raised his arms. He then vanished in a block of strange indigo light, teleporting away, no doubt to those staging grounds where he would lead the invasion of the Hallowlands.

Enakhra did not move as Zamorak turned his attention to her. "You haven't said a single word, my dear," the Dark God observed, walking around Enakhra in a slow, contemplative circle.

"You haven't spoken to me, yet," Enakhra replied evenly. "Until now."

"At least you do not run your mouth like Zemouregal does. That can be rather irritating at times," Zamorak withdrew, gesturing for Enakhra to follow him back to his throne. The Dark God sat back down upon the black seat and rested back, regarding the female Mahjarrat with varying amounts of interest and curiosity. "You lied to me," the Dark God declared finally after a long silence.

Enakhra raised a surprised eyebrow. "I'm sorry?" she asked, not comprehending.

Zamorak snapped his fingers and a section of the floor instantly melted into molten lava. However, when Zamorak waved his hand over it, the bright yellow surface of the lava vanished, replaced by an image of an older Human on a magic carpet, along with a young boy. They appeared to be in the desert and flying forward at a goof speed.

The boy was unfamiliar to Enakhra. He was a thin specimen with deathly pale skin—unusual for a desert-dweller—coal-black hair, and a sprinkling of freckles across his eyes, nose, and cheeks. Enakhra then noticed his eyes; they were a shade of deep scarlet…most unusual for a human in general, let along a desert-dweller.

The older man was familiar to her, however. She had…run into him several times in the past. "_Jerrod_…" she whispered.

"You know this man?" Zamorak sounded interested.

"I'm surprised that you _don't,_" Enakhra replied, leaning in for a closer look at the Cleric's face. Jerrod of Entrana was somewhat well-known among most followers of Zamorak…his skill with the elements combined with his swordsmanship had built him quite a reputation. "He is one of the main reasons we were not able to initiate our attacks on Centralia until very recently. He is actually responsible for the extinction of three werewolf clans. That man has been the biggest thorn in our side after Azzanadra."

"The man is a Human. I think you give him too much credit," the Dark God shrugged dismissively.

Enakhra shook her head. "He is not to be underestimated. A Human he may be, but he fights like a Mahjarrat. I have crossed paths with him before."

"Do you believe he will be too much for you to handle?" Zamorak leered. "Zemouregal, I'm sure, will be up to the task, should it become too...daunting…"

"_No,_" Enakhra snapped. "The only reason he is still alive today is because he ran from me every time I crossed him. He has survived a lot more than most other Humans could…but he is still Human. I will break him."

"Good to hear," Zamorak took a deep breath and leaned forward, pointing at the image. "But my real concern is that boy. Do you know him?"

Enakhra glanced at the boy again, just to make sure _she_ was sure that she had never seen him before. The she-Mahjarrat shook her head. "I do not."

Zamorak's pale face parted in a cold grin. "Think again. This image was taken from the memory of a vyrewatch vampyre named Rhellyhk, and based on accounts from many of my forces who destroyed Ullek, that boy destroyed a whole host of death knights with the Fifth Element."

"By himself?" Enakhra exclaimed, bewildered. "That is impossible."

"And yet that host of death knights remains dead," Zamorak countered. "It _should_ be impossible…but it is not. I have seen from this vampyre's memory what that boy did to those death knights…and there is no longer any doubt. _This_ boy is the one from the Prophecy I found on the Stone of Jas…the one who it is said will bring an end to the war…"

"And if the Cleric Jerrod is with him, that means he is under Saradomin's influence," Enakhra finished for the Dark God.

"He must be turned or destroyed," Zamorak declared. "This is your task, my dear. Go out into the world. Find the boy, capture him, and turn him…and if capturing him is impossible, then end him."

Enakhra gave a deep bow. "It will be done."

"Enakhra," Zamorak wasn't yet finished. "You do know who this 'boy' _really_ is, do you not? You are aware that he is Mahjarrat?"

Enakhra nodded emotionlessly. "I am aware."

"Then you realize what that means?"

"I do."

Zamorak's light grin dropped, the Dark God no longer masking his true emotions. "I am sending you to capture, and possibly kill him, Enakhra," the Dark God reiterated. "I trust that, when the moment comes, you shall not...hesitate?"

Enakhra's green eyes flashed red for a moment. The she-Mahjarrat was irritated that Zamorak would doubt her resolve. "The boy serves Saradomin," she spat. "I look _forward_ to that moment."

"_Good_..." the Dark God hissed, the shrouds of shadow beginning to obscure him once more. "Now, go...find him..._go_..."

Enakhra did not remain in that throne room another second. She turned on her heel and strode down the length of the throne room, heading down the flight of stone steps to the great entrance hall.

Once she left the palace, she stopped, taking a deep breath. She could teleport with ease, but she never enjoyed it, preferring other methods of travel instead. This time, though, it was the best option.

As she prepared to go, the only thing on her mind was the face of that infernal Saradominist mage, the one who had caused her so much trouble over the past years. He had eluded her every time she hunted him down...but this time, it would be different. This time, she did not intend to be led on another wild-goose chase.

She smiled as the indigo light bent the space around her. "I'm coming for you, Jerrod..." she whispered.

The last thing that went through her mind before she vanished was her destination. Though she did not know her prey's specific location, a generalization would have to do. She pictured the lush green plants and murky lakes of the Virid Swamp.

It was time to pay a visit to an old friend.


	2. Chapter 2: Field Trip Home

Chapter Two: Field Trip Home

"_Gods above_…" Athellenas, Senior Warmaster of the Centralian Army, whispered as he walked down the ruined streets of Uzer.

The capital of what had used to be the Menaphite Empire had been completely leveled. When Thammaron's hordes had invaded, they had plundered and burned the city…but when the legions of the Centralian Army's 1st Element had broken down the walls and allowed Azzanadra into the city, the Zarosian Mahjarrat had completely _destroyed_ the place.

Not that the former inhabitants of the city would mind; they were all dead. Well, dead or far away. The Menaphites who had survived Thammaron's brutal sweep were making their way towards Sophanem in the south, their one remaining city and refuge. Thammaron's splinter hordes had been unable to make it that far south.

And though the city had been destroyed, the countless thousands of monsters that had been entrenched inside of it had also been killed. Azzanadra had single-handedly wiped out Thammaron's entire army, effectively ending Zamorak's campaign in the desert.

Not that it mattered. The Menaphite Empire had still been virtually destroyed.

"Have I ever mentioned how glad I am not to be fighting _against_ that…that _thing?_" General Sinclair murmured, surveying the carnage and destruction.

"Mind your tongue, general," Athellenas warned the IV Legion commander. "The Mahjarrat may not take too kindly to being called a 'thing'."

Paladin Anesti hummed in agreement. The Paladin had had a rough day. During the attack on the walls of Uzer, when Sir Brezhnov had been trying to destroy the gate with the long-range mortar cannon, Thammaron had tried to destroy it with lightning. The Paladin had used himself as a human shield to redirect that lightning. As a result, he still sported myriad scars and burns from the feat.

"I must say, Warmaster…you did your job rather well."

Athellenas did not need to turn around to see that it was Azzanadra who had spoken. "Mahjarrat," the Warmaster turned on his heel, not even bothering to wonder how Azzanadra had gotten behind them without his noticing.

Azzanadra had returned to his human form of a bearded, red-haired traveler. It was much less unsettling than the skull-headed Lich he had turned into when he attacked Uzer.

The Zarosian Mahjarrat inhaled through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. "I have not had a fight like this since Zamorak's rebellion…this felt good…"

Sir Derren didn't hesitate to ask the question everyone wanted to ask: "Is Thammaron-"

"Dead? Of course; do you think of me as an incompetent?" Azzanadra frowned. "To be fair, he actually put up a halfway decent fight for about a minute or so…" the Mahjarrat shrugged. "Ah well…I do not think I shall get another even fight until I cross one of my traitor brethren."

"So…what now?" Sir Derren asked.

"That is up to you," Azzanadra replied with a shrug. "My task is finished. Thammaron's hordes are destroyed. I expect you and your men shall be heading wherever the Pretender God decides to attack next. Until our destinies cross once more, Warmaster," the Zarosian Mahjarrat nodded to Athellenas.

There was a flash of indigo light, and when Athellenas looked back up, the Mahjarrat was gone.

Athellenas turned around and, without another word, set off back towards the ruined gate of Uzer. Finding Azzanadra and confirming the death of Thammaron had been the only reason he had ventured forth. Time to go back.

For the next hour, the Warmaster oversaw the stability of his 1st Element. A lot of good men had died in that last assault; they needed a central leader to keep from collapsing. They probably would have been fine without one, but _having_ one certainly helped.

After inspecting the field hospitals—and keeping his stomach after looking at some of the horrors inflicted upon the wounded—he was approached by Paladin Anesti.

"Have you sufficiently attended to the legions?" the Paladin asked. "I have orders to return you to Tethys for a meeting with the King."

"How do you propose we do that?" Athellenas asked the Paladin. "We can't teleport in the desert."

"We can _now,_" Anesti corrected the Warmaster. "I found that I was able to after Thammaron was killed. Zamorak must have lifted the block."

"Alright, then…" Athellenas nodded. "Sir Derren can handle things for a little while, I suppose."

"Good thing, because I already told him you were leaving," the Paladin extended a hand. "So, if you wouldn't mind…?"

Athellenas decided to save being irritated at the Paladin for bypassing his authority later, opting instead to simply roll with it. He grasped Anesti's hand. "Go."

The Warmaster squeezed his eyes shut. His friend Jerrod always complained of nausea every time he teleported. Athellenas never felt like he was going to throw up when teleporting, though; he got headaches instead.

There was a flash of purple light, and Athellenas went through the extremely uncomfortable feeling of being squeezed through a tiny hole, then sucked down a vortex before finally getting spat out the other end. Naturally, that was not how teleportation worked; it was merely the way humans perceived the experience.

Athellenas noticed the change even before he opened his eyes. The blistering heat of the desert that he had grown so used to was gone, replaced by a cool breath of wind.

The Warmaster opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. He had materialized in the middle of the Square; the central nexus of Tethys. The Centralian capital city was the same as Athellenas remembered it. The cobblestones of the square sparkled in the sunlight. Merchants crowded around the space, selling their wares and trading with customers.

The sudden arrival of the Warmaster seemed to incite a limited amount of interest. Mages suddenly materializing in the middle of the square was not a particularly uncommon sight, but seeing a Paladin of Saradomin arrive with the Senior Warmaster was sufficient enough to momentarily disrupt the monotony of city life.

Many of the citizens offered respectful salutes or nods to the Warmaster, which Athellenas returned as much as he could. He wished he had Onyx here with him, but he didn't, so he ended up making his way up the Boulevard and towards the Royal Compound on foot, accompanied by the Paladin. Though Anesti was behind him the whole time, the Paladin didn't speak.

The Old Guard sentries who were stationed at the gate crossed their pikes, asking for Athellenas's name and purpose.

Athellenas gave them his name and titles, finishing by stating that he was here at the request of the King himself. Then an Old Guard officer shouted down from the walls to open the gates for the Warmaster, so the sentries needed no further questioning.

Athellenas strode through the opened gates and into the Royal Compound. He kept walking down the cobbled path in the center, passing by the Forum and the other structures before ascending the entrance steps to the palace.

The Warmaster passed by several more groups of Old Guardsmen, but he had passed the gate and his face was well-known among members of the military, so he wasn't challenged again.

The Warmaster walked through two sets of doors and into the throne room, but the King's throne was empty. No matter; Athellenas knew precisely where King Osman would be at this time of day.

The Warmaster and the Paladin both walked down the length of the throne room. Athellenas walked up to the oak door set into the wall behind the throne, giving it a sharp knock.

"_Come,_" a familiar young voice said from the other side.

Athellenas pushed open the door, walking into King Osman's study. Upon seeing the King, the Warmaster removed his helmet, allowing his mane of silver hair to fall to his shoulders. He got down on one knee and bowed his head. "My liege," he said.

King Osman looked nothing like a King right now. He was not dressed in any of the fancy robes or opulent attire one would expect from a monarch. Truth be told, he never wore anything like that, except for formal ceremonies. He had a crown, but he never wore it unless he was addressing other people throughout the kingdom or granting audience to citizens. Right now, he was dressed in a simple cloth shirt and pants, leather shoes, and a dark vest.

Athellenas knew Osman had an interesting childhood. His father had died when he was fifteen, making him the new King of Centralia at a young age. Now, he was eighteen, but on the inside he acted like a forty-year-old man. It was amazing what having the weight of a kingdom on one's shoulders could do to a man. It could force a person to act like someone twice his age…and it _had_ with Osman.

"Let us dispense with the formalities, Athellenas," King Osman waved for the Warmaster to get up, exchanging a quick nod with the Paladin. Anesti hadn't bowed because, as a Paladin of the Church of Saradomin, he was technically not answerable to the Centralian government. He answered to the Priori on Entrana. After he had finished the greeting, he excused himself and waited outside, closing the door behind him.

"Very well," Athellenas straightened up and settled his bulky frame into one of the chairs set in front of King Osman's desk.

"I've been hearing some good things from the east…and some very bad things…" the King said. "Before I go into detail, I would like your report on the status of the Menaphite Empire. Were you able to prevent Uzer from falling?"

"Far from it, sire," Athellenas grumbled. "Thammaron…he was just too fast for us. We got caught up at Shantay Pass, and by the time we caught up to his hordes…they had already sacked Uzer. The Menaphite Empire is gone."

King Osman nodded, confirming his suspicions. "I had thought as much," the Centralian monarch murmured. "I have lost all contact with their Pharaoh…this is indeed disastrous news…but I presume Thammaron has been defeated?"

"Thammaron and his armies are all gone," Athellenas nodded. The Warmaster proceeded to explain his deal with the Zarosian Mahjarrat Azzanadra that eventually resulted in his breaching the walls of Uzer and Azzanadra's destruction of the rest of the entire city.

"I am not going to question your judgment in allying with the champion of Zaros…clearly, it got the job done…" King Osman sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Things simply seem to have been quite hectic in the desert as of late, quite hectic indeed. I do not know if you have been receiving any news from the Hallowlands, lately."

"No, I have not," Athellenas shook his head. "Why? What has happened?"

King Osman lifted his head and rested back into his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Are you familiar with the name 'Drakan'?"

"_Drakan?_" Athellenas's other eyebrow slid up the length of his forehead. "Drakan as in Lowerniel Vergidiyad Drakan, de facto leader and overlord of all the vampyre clans?"

"You _ do_ know of him, then."

Athellenas nodded grimly. "I'm sure you are familiar with Jerrod the Lightbringer? At least, that _used_ to be what he was called."

It was Osman's turn to nod. "He vanished ten years ago, did he not?"

"I traveled with him in my youth," Athellenas explained, not answering the King's last question. "Back when we both had black hair, we put several of Drakan's friends permanently out of business. I've still got a few scars from them; they put up a reasonable fight. We tried taking out Drakan himself as well…" Athellenas's voice trailed off and the Warmaster gave a hapless shrug. "Well, you can't have everything, eh?"

"Indeed," the King hummed in agreement. "My point is that Lord Drakan is back. I don't know where he crawled off to these past few decades, but he's back. Something is happening in the Hallowlands. Commerce with the Iceyene has all but stopped, our contact with them is slipping…and their Queen has been sending me reports of increasing urgency for the past month, practically begging me to send military aid."

"And did you?"

King Osman shook his head. "All of my available armed forces were in the desert, fighting under you. I had no aid to send."

"You mean the Forum _still_ refuses to issue a Declaration of War?" Athellenas nearly exploded. "After _all_ the shit—pardon my language—my men and I have waded through in the desert, after all the boys who have met their ends at the hands of Zamorak's filth, those bastards who call themselves Consuls _still_ refuse to pull their heads out of their-"

"Peace, Warmaster," King Osman held up his hand. "That was the case until two days ago. Two days ago, I was able to…_persuade_ the Consuls to grant me emergency wartime powers. Don't ask how I managed to do this, because I will not tell you. What I _will_ tell you instead is that I have sent out dispatches to all of the provinces. Within the next two weeks, the entire Centralian Army shall be mobilized."

"And what of my men in the desert?" Athellenas asked next.

"The problem in the Menaphite Empire has been resolved, one way or another," the King sighed. "Zamorak no longer occupies the desert. I believe Zamorak is developing a new strategy that he has not used before. In the past, he would boil out of the Wilderness and try to burn his way into Tethys…but every single time we managed to stop him. Now…he seems to be knocking down everyone else first. He has destroyed the Menaphite armies, and now he is moving on the Iceyene. The Elves and dwarves have retreated to their realms and sealed their borders; if the Hallowlands fall…we will be very much alone."

"What of the Anuido?"

King Osman shrugged. "I have sent Lord Fernando across the eastern oceans to the Anuido people's homelands…I don't know what to expect, though. The Sun Emperor is a difficult man to predict. I can only hope he will help us when the time comes."

"So you intend to send us into the Hallowlands to assist the Iceyene?"

"Yes," King Osman rose from his chair. "I have sent elements of the Navy around the south of the Desert. In a day or so they should reach your men's location. Your men will board that fleet and sail north to the western shores of the Hallowlands. By the time you return, the entire army shall have been mobilized."

"Sounds simple enough," Athellenas grunted. "I wasn't able to kill Drakan the last time around…but maybe with twelve-thousand soldiers I could do something."


	3. Chapter 3: Family Reunion

Chapter Three: Family Reunion

Blue sky was the first thing Avis saw when he cracked open his eyelids. Blue sky with a few wisps of cirrus clouds, and a flock of what looked like gulls flying overhead.

The boy winced as he sat up, holding a hand over one side of his face. A splitting headache throbbed through his skull…it felt as if there were a hundred tiny hammers trying to pound their way out of his head. His eyes refocused and he found himself sitting on top of a large stone altar with a dark water drop engraved into its surface. The altar was located on the top of a hill, which was on an island…which was surrounded by ocean on all sides, as well as smaller islands.

Then Avis remembered. He was in the Water Temple, the place where mages came to instill the power of Water into runestones, the place where he had been brought by Jerrod to Awaken the Water inside of him…

"How do you feel?"

Avis whipped around at the sound of the voice. Jerrod was sitting on one of the toppled plinths that surrounded the altar. Avis wondered how long he had been waiting for him to wake up.

The boy gave a light grunt. "Like someone hit me over the head with a cudgel," he muttered, shaking his head slowly and pressing his temples, trying to alleviate the ache.

The Cleric gave a low chuckle. "I know that feeling," the older man smiled. "Of course, I get it from drinking too much mead, not from Awakening elemental energy that I do not have."

"What…what happened?" Avis swung his legs over the edge of the altar and took a deep breath, getting ready to walk.

Jerrod did not answer immediately. Instead, he pulled out a drinking flask and unstoppered it, pouring some water into the cup of his hands. He stood up, walked forward, and held the water out to Avis. "I want you to concentrate on this water," he said. "Try to feel its energy…and levitate it."

"Are you joking?" Avis raised an eyebrow at the Cleric.

"Am I laughing?"

Taking the Cleric's point, the boy gave a short sigh and did as he was told, gazing straight into the water in Jerrod's hands, trying to get it to rise up into the air.

The fact that the water didn't actually levitate really didn't matter, because Avis was too surprised at how easy it had been to take control of it…and then _lose_ control of it. The water in Jerrod's hand started to boil for a split-second before suddenly exploding out in all directions. It didn't hit anything, though, because it almost instantly vaporized into steam.

Jerrod's eye twitched once as his scalded, blistered hands finally registered the searing pain dealt to them from the boiling water. Avis noticed the hands as well and nearly collapsed under an avalanche of apologies.

"Oh my God!" he cried, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I'm-"

"Will you just shut up, please?" the Cleric huffed in irritation. "I've dueled with demons and nightmares; you think I don't know how to treat a simple burn?"

Jerrod poured more water into his burned hands and closed his eyes, concentrating on something. As Avis watched, the water in the Cleric's hands started to glow a luminous blue, moving on its own accord and enveloping the Cleric's hands and fingers like gloves, its soft glow intensifying to a harsh cyan-white.

Then the light simply vanished and the water returned to its normal state, cascading off of Jerrod's hands. The Cleric held out his hand—which Avis saw was fully healed—and the falling water stopped in mid-air before it hit the ground. Mimicking the movements of Jerrod's hands, the water was compressed into a sphere, then drawn out into a long, shiny rope and eased back into the flask.

"Well, I'd say this whole thing worked…" Jerrod murmured, rubbing the palms of his hands together. "The elemental energy of Water inside of you that has been dormant all these years…it's been released…" the Cleric gave another low chuckle. "I've runecrafted a boy…"

"But I still have no control over Water…I'm no better off than I was before I had-"

The Cleric cut the boy off with a shrug. "Sure, you're a little rusty around the edges, but what did you expect? Do you really believe that there is a way to just instantaneously become a master at any skill? We took a shortcut, here, yes…but all you have is the raw power. You must still learn how to use it."

"Oh…" the boy still sounded disappointed. This meant a lot more training…and now he would be destroyed by the Cleric in sword training _and_ Water… Air was the only element with which Avis could hold his own, and only because he had developed it for nearly ten years.

"Water does not seem to be your natural element, either…" Jerrod observed as Avis climbed down from the altar.

Avis frowned. The Cleric had mentioned that before, back when he had first asked Avis to demonstrate his power over Air, commenting how Air did not seem to be his natural element. "What do you mean?" the boy asked.

"Every mage has a natural element…an element that is in harmony with his or her soul…an element that actively responds to the mage," Jerrod explained. "Mine is Water. A fluid element…ever flowing and changing, capable of adapting to any situation, nearly impossible to capture… I've survived as long as I have mostly by adapting and, in many cases, evading."

"You? Running away?" Avis sounded highly skeptical.

"I am a man, Avis," Jerrod replied. "One of the most powerful mages you'll ever meet, perhaps…but still just a man. There are many things in this world that are beyond my ability to fight. Better to live to fight another day than to die needlessly by choosing pride over common sense. That's one weapon that can topple the most powerful of monsters: common sense."

Avis, who never always understood the full meaning behind Jerrod's cryptic words, simply shrugged and walked after the Cleric, who had started to descend the hill which the altar was on. Ignoring the throbbing ache in his skull, the boy remembered something he hadn't remembered a moment ago; he had been too focused on figuring out what had just happened. "So, you never did explain to me why I was able to get into this place without that talisman, or whatever it was."

"I didn't?" the Cleric sounded only somewhat surprised, as if it were some minor detail that had slipped his mind. "Well, it's all very simple, really. You're a Mahjarrat."

Avis blinked, stopping dead in his tracks. "What, now?"

* * *

"…and so, when Zamorak finally rebelled against Zaros, the Mahjarrat were divided in a massive civil war…"

Avis trudged alongside Jerrod, only half-listening to his explanation of the true nature and origins of the Mahjarrat warriors. Jerrod had taken him out of the Water Temple and back into the Virid Swamp, and they had since set off back towards the Cleric's cottage. He already knew what Mahjarrat were; back before they had joined Zaros, when they had been under the influence of Icthlarin, the desert God of the Dead, they had been well-known and equally feared by the Menaphite people. Farrah had taught him all about them; they had been called the Faceless Ones by the Menaphites, due to their shape-shifting abilities.

Due to _his_ shapeshifting abilities… Avis shook his head again for the umpteenth time; _how_ in all of creation could he be a Faceless One? In retrospect, it _did_ explain the mysterious abnormalities in his life; using magic without runestones, living his whole life in the desert without losing his deathly pale skin, his ease at mastering Air as a child…oh, and the fact that he had fallen to earth in a freaking _falling star_. That was the biggie.

"How could I have lived my whole life without…without _knowing?_" the boy murmured, stepping over a particularly large tree root. "I mean…I just…I feel _normal_."

"Define _normal,_" Jerrod countered. When Avis was unable to give an actual answer, the Cleric went on. "What you meant to say is that you feel _human_. Maybe you do, maybe you do not…regardless, you are what you are."

The boy mulled that over as he walked through the swamp with Jerrod. They went on for an hour or two, pushing through the vegetation, crossing lakes, heading back towards the cottage. Half the time he could never understand the meaning behind Jerrod's cryptic statements, and this was one of those times. Maybe he wasn't a human, but he certainly didn't feel like how he thought something as powerful as a Mahjarrat should feel.

Of course, the boy didn't think Jerrod was deliberately trying to confuse him; the Cleric simply wanted to stretch Avis's mindset in new directions. Rhetoric and logic were two of his most powerful tools. He _had_ to understand how telling someone that they were actually a member of the most powerful race in all of Gielinor, save the Gods, would instantly be met with skepticism.

Avis did not reinitiate any conversation until the sun started to arc down from its noontime zenith, beginning the rule of afternoon. "Have you ever met a Faceless One?"

Jerrod, who was well aware of what Menaphites called Mahjarrat, nodded. "Yes, I've met a few, and in most cases it was in battle."

"You've won fights against Mahjarrat?" Avis could barely contain his surprise, but it was quickly stymied by an amused snort from Jerrod.

"Oh, Gods no," the Cleric guffawed. "Remember what I said about it being okay to run away in order to fight another day? I was mostly referring to the certain times in my life when I have clashed with Mahjarrat. I've…_eluded_ them every time…but once you reach your full potential, you will be able to fight them on equal terms, should we ever run into any of them. You will be greater than I ever was…"

"What's going to happen to me, master?" Avis asked next. "I learn all the elements. I learn the Fifth Element. Then what? Am I just supposed to walk up to Zamorak's doorstep and ask him nicely to stop destroying the world?"

"Son, I have no idea what is in store for you," the Cleric sighed. "It will be a long while before you're ready to go up against anything…and I fear that by the time you have reached your full power, this world will be in a much more dire state. We are racing against the clock; we must stop Zamorak before he burns Centralia. If Centralia falls…all will be lost."

For one of the first times, Avis finally started to feel the immense pressure that Jerrod was under. The Cleric had to train him before Zamorak burned the world to a cinder…but at the same time, Jerrod could not rush things. Rushed training would hurt Avis, not help him. And then Avis began to feel the even more immense pressure that was pressing down on _him_. Jerrod had to train him, yes…but the Cleric wouldn't have to stop Zamorak. That was Avis's job. The fate of the world rested squarely on Avis's shoulders, and the boy wasn't sure if he could-

"_Stop it,_" the Cleric suddenly ordered Avis, shaking the boy out of his reverie.

"Wha-?"

"I know what you were thinking about," Jerrod rolled his eyes. "The whole 'fate of the world resting on my shoulders' deal. Stop thinking about that right this minute, you hear?"

Avis decided to trust the Cleric and did his best to ignore those thoughts. Though he successfully cleared them from his mind, he could still feel them around the fringes of his consciousness…almost like a thunderstorm on the horizon.

"You have to take each day as it comes," Jerrod explained after a little while. "Conquer each challenge as it presents itself. I'm not saying 'don't think about the future'…but don't be _ruled_ by the future. If you can't stop thinking about what lies ahead, you will never get anything done in the present."

Now, _that_ was something the boy could make heads and tails of. After a little while, Avis found himself standing at the shore of the lake which Jerrod's island was located in. Jerrod stepped forward, raising his hands to create the path of ice which he used to cross the water…but at the last second he reconsidered and stepped back.

"I want you to try this," Jerrod said to Avis. "I want you to create an ice bridge."

"I…how would I even-"

"No, asking pointless questions is _not_ how it is done," the Cleric remarked. "When you cast Air Magic…it is almost as if you can feel the wind, is it not? Almost as if the wind which you are manipulating is an extension of your arms and mind."

"I guess that's a good way of putting it…"

"I want you to focus on the water the same way you focus on the air…feel the element flowing through you…then seize it."

Avis was already most of the way there, having closed his eyes and cleared his mind before the Cleric finished his sentence. Ever since the ordeal at the Water altar, it was as if he had gained a new sense…or if not a new one, then it was as if he had discovered a whole new side of an old one. Growing up with Air had been a part of his life…that he could now feel Water in the same way was…exhilarating.

Following Jerrod's instruction, he pictured himself as the water of the lake. He imagined that his Anima Mundi was infused in the water, that he _was_ the water…and then he pictured a great swathe of ice freezing the surface, just wide enough to comfortably walk on.

Nothing actually happened, but Avis could feel something tugging inside of him…his inner elemental energy was responding to his summons, there was no doubt…it just wasn't actually _emerging_ yet…

Avis tried harder, focusing only on turning that stubborn water to ice. That tugging sensation grew stronger and stronger. Though he barely noticed that he was doing it, he raised his arms into the air, stepped forward, and brought his arms sweeping back down in a single gesture.

That tugging sensation seemed to snap, and the newly-Awakened Water energy inside of the boy exploded into reality. Avis was thrown back several feet by the force of the sudden energy displacement, landing flat on his back.

When the boy slowly pushed himself back up to his feet, the first thing he noticed was Jerrod's expression. It wasn't over-the-top, or anything; simply two raised eyebrows and a slightly open mouth—in short, the most surprised Avis had ever seen the man.

"Well…uh…you still need to work on it a _lot_…but I'd say you got the gist…" the Cleric murmured.

Avis gasped when he surveyed his handiwork. He had frozen water into ice, alright…half the water in the entire lake. There was no ice bridge; simply a lake of ice to walk across. "I did _that?_"

"Still don't feel like a Mahjarrat, boy?" Jerrod quipped, stepping out onto the ice and heading towards the island in the center of the lake. "This is but a small taste of what your kind can do…imagine if such power was used for pure destruction. That's what awaits this world if Zamorak ever gets ahold of you…"

Avis stared at the ice he now treaded upon, still scarcely able to believe he had caused all of that. Already, parts of it were beginning to melt, but it would be a long while before all of the ice went away. As he considered the true extent of what his powers could develop into, the boy realized just how close of a call Gielinor had had when he had escaped Ullek. He had been shot through with an arrow; helpless…he had come within a hairsbreadth of capture by Zamorackian forces. Had the Cleric not been there to get him out, Avis would be in a much worse situation right now.

"Before we retire for the evening," Jerrod ducked into the cottage, returning with the two shortswords which he and Avis used for sparring. "I shall see how well you have mastered the backhanded-"

The Cleric suddenly tensed, stopping mid-speech. He tightened his grip on his elemental staff, quickly buckling the two shortswords to his waist.

"What is it?" Avis barely managed to ask before Jerrod silenced him with a harsh glare.

"Something's breached my perimeter wards…" the Cleric murmured. "Something powerful…I-"

The Cleric did not have a chance to say anything more, for at that very moment his cottage suddenly exploded in a great roar of flame. Jerrod and Avis were hurled to the ground by the force of the explosion.

Avis rolled onto his back and tried to get to his feet, but the earth suddenly heaved and enveloped his arms and legs, pinning him into the ground. "Wha-?"

Jerrod swore loudly and tried to get up, but a shape rushed right at him through the air. He caught only a flash of red clothing and green eyes before the object—which turned out to be a fist—connected with his jaw, sending him flying back into a tree.

The Cleric hit the tree with a pained grunt, sliding down to the ground, his chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath. In a flash, a knee was pressed against his chest and a knife held to his throat. The Cleric gazed into the beautiful, flawless face of the hooded woman who had struck him. Her green eyes and perfect features were painfully familiar to the older man.

"Enakhra," Jerrod gave a crooked smile, spitting out a glob of blood off to the side. "Good to see you again."

"And you as well, Jerrod Lightbringer…" the woman grinned, but it was a cold smile…one that did not reach her eyes. "It's been too long."

"I keep telling you; a simple 'hello' will suffice," the Cleric rasped. "No need for the fists in my face."

"Just in case you get it in that slippery mind of yours to try to run away _again_…To be truthful, I am not here for you, although ending you will certainly be a perk," Enakhra leered. "I have come for the child."

"_Master!_" Avis was calling from where he was pinned to the ground. "Help me!"

"I'm a little _stuck_ over here, if you haven't noticed already!" Jerrod shouted back, his gaze flitting down to the knife held on his throat for a moment. "Concentrate, boy! Concentrate and-"

Enakhra drove her other fist into the side of Jerrod's face, cutting the Cleric off mid-sentence. "Lesson is over, I'm afraid," the she-Mahjarrat smiled. "The boy has a new master, now."

Suddenly, there was a muffled explosion somewhere behind Enakhra. A geyser of water jetted several hundred feet into the air, and Jerrod could see Avis's figure flailing at the very top. The tower of water quickly collapsed in on itself, splashing back to the ground. Avis was left hanging in the air with nothing to hold him up but flapping arms. As he fell, however, he called upon the much more familiar element of Air, cushioning his fall with a concentrated blast of wind aimed at the ground.

The boy staggered to his feet, swaying in place as if he were at sea. "Leave him alone," he ordered the she-Mahjarrat.

Enakhra's malicious grin widened. "The apprentice tries to protect the master...how touching. Do you really think you stand a chance against me?"

Avis said nothing. To be honest, he _knew_ that he did not...but he held his ground nonetheless.

"Tell you what," the hooded woman purred. "If you come with me peacefully, I'll spare the old man's life."

"_Old man?_" Jerrod huffed indignantly. "I'm not even sixty years old yet; where do you get off calling me an old-"

"_Silence,_" Enakhra pressed the blade deeper into Jerrod's throat, drawing a faint drop of blood. She turned back to face Avis. "What's it going to be, _hm?_ Give yourself up and your master lives. Fight me, and I will capture you and take you north by force, and then, for good measure, I'll kill your master for sport."

"Don't do it, boy!" Jerrod barked at his apprentice. "Don't you _dare_ give yourself over! You do that, and what happened to your home will happen all over the world!"

In his mind's eye, Avis could see the burning, ruined wreckage that had once been the great, wondrous city of Ullek, the epicenter of Menaphite culture. Such a beautiful place, such a culturally rich place...leveled. Destroyed. Gone. Avis knew that that had to never happen again...and if he gave himself over to Zamorak, then that destruction _would_ happen again, on a global scale.

"Do you trust me, boy?" Jerrod asked in between coughs and rasps. "Do you trust me?"

"You know that I do," Avis replied.

"_Enough!_" Enakhra snapped, her composure slipping. "My patience wears thin. What is it to be, child?"

"_This,_" Avis stamped the ground with one foot, punching the air with both fists. Twin blasts of wind arced through the air and slammed head-on into Enakhra. The she-Mahjarrat was thrown off of her feet, but she executed a perfect flip as she flew through the air and landed back on her feet.

"Wrong choice," she whispered. Enakhra raised her arms, taking a deep breath. She flipped forward and sprinted right towards Avis, moving faster than an eagle in full flight. Avis barely had time to sidestep her. She spun around and lashed out, punching towards Avis's head. The boy ducked as a whip of flame sliced through the air where he had been standing. Enakhra struck again and was met with a tad bit more success; Avis got nicked on his right shoulder.

The boy ignored the burning pain in his shoulder and started to fight back. He was no match for Enakhra; the she-Mahjarrat was simply too strong. What he _could_ do, however, was evade. Using every ounce of wind he could muster, the boy ducked punches and strikes, leaped over bursts of flame, and blocked frontal attacks. Though he seemed to be holding his own, Avis knew that he was doomed. All he was doing was staving off the inevitable; eventually Enakhra would score a hit, and that would be that.

Avis's luck finally ran out when, after trying and failing to immobilize Enakhra with a wind shell, he landed on his feet and tried to jump back into the air. Before he could do so, however, Enakhra struck once more.

A powerful fist of wind slammed into Avis's chest, throwing the boy back into another tree. Before he could recover, Enakhra stepped forward and, with a powerful gesture, stamped the ground. The earth under Avis bubbled, softened, and became like quicksand. The boy sank in up to his knees before the earth suddenly hardened once more, locking him in.

The boy grunted, struggling to free himself. It was no use; the earth was unyielding, and his wind was unable to break it. Had he been able to cast Earth Magic, he could have freed himself…but, as it was, he _didn't_ know Earth Magic. Tough break.

Enakhra clenched her hand in a fist, as if she were gripping someone's neck, and Avis jerked up against the tree as the air coalesced around him. The boy was immobilized by the grip of the air. It was a powerful wind spell—Avis had even managed to defeat Jerrod in a sparring match with it. Now it was being used against him.

Enakhra sidled up to the boy, kneeling before him and pushing his jet black hair out of his eyes. "You made the wrong choice," she sighed. "Truthfully, I must laud your unwillingness to surrender…that you would rather fight than go quietly. You are a true Mahjarrat. But I'm afraid what awaits you is going to be rather painful. And seeing as you have attempted to harm me, I am going to have to-"

The she-Mahjarrat gave a startled cry of pain as she was unexpectedly struck in the head by a stone, thrown from behind. Enakhra's green eyes flashed crimson for a second and her mouth hardened into a line. "Excuse me for a moment," she said to Avis, flashing him a forced smile, and rose back to her feet.

Jerrod, bloodied and bruised, stood—leaning heavily on his staff—several yards away from the tree which Enakhra had hurled him into, right near the clump of spiritweed flowers. His hand was now empty, the stone that had been in it having already been thrown. "Leave the kid alone, Enakhra," he growled.

An innocent eyebrow slid up Enakhra's forehead. "Leave him alone? I could ask you to do the same thing, Lightbringer, you and that weakling God of yours. I have more right than anyone else to do what I see fit with him."

"You forfeited that right a long time ago," Jerrod countered.

"Irrelevant," Enakhra hissed, clenching her fists. Small tongues of flame flared from her knuckles as she walked forward, raised her fist, and struck Jerrod full in the chest once again. The Cleric went flying back, landing on the ground with a pained _oof_.

"_Mm_…that was strange…" Enakhra murmured, as if she were examining what had just happened. "You didn't even try to evade that blow…most unlike you, from what I have learned on our previous encounters."

"Indeed," Jerrod rasped, strugging back to his feet. He did not take an offensive stance, however. Instead, he closed his eyes, pointed one of his hands at the ground Enakhra was standing on, and spoke five powerful, booming words that could not be understood. They were _felt_ more than they were heard.

There was a sudden blaze of light that forced everyone to avert their eyes. When Jerrod looked back, he relaxed—his ploy had worked. Enakhra was standing in the middle of a large, intricate symbol that had been etched into the ground. It had been invisible a moment before, but when Jerrod had spoken those commands it had come blazing to life.

"Enochian sigils, Jerrod?" Enakhra commented. She stepped up to the edge of the inner circle in which she was imprisoned and tried to step out, but the sigil flashed brightly, forcing the she-Mahjarrat back. "Not bad…not bad at all…" she murmured under her breath before turning back to face Jerrod. Her cold smile returned, and she said, "You haven't won, Lightbringer; you have only delayed the inevitable. We will cross paths again."

"Well, until that time comes," Jerrod hobbled over to the tree where Avis was trapped up to his knees in earth. "Give my regards to your master." The Cleric laid a hand on Avis's shoulder and closed his eyes as he settled into deep concentration. As Enakhra watched, a flash of indigo light enveloped master and apprentice, and they vanished.

Having nothing else to do, the she-Mahjarrat sat down and waited. She was patient, and help was already on the way. She vowed to herself that next time the Cleric would not be so lucky.

* * *

Jerrod and Avis materialized at the top of a grassy hill. The only thing that broke the monotony of the hillscape was a wide dirt road winding around the hills into the distance. That road was where Jerrod now headed, gesturing for Avis to follow him. "This road leads to Aeriose, the Centralian city built on the River Lum. We'll reach it by nightfall and tend to ourselves tonight. You think you can make it?"

"I…I think so," the boy nodded, wincing as he accidentally brushed his burned shoulder. He looked up at the Cleric, his curiosity threatening to eat him from the inside out. There were a million questions he was aching to ask, but the one he ultimately chose to ask was, "Who...who was that? How did you know her? Why is she after us?"

"_That,_ Avis-" Jerrod locked eyes with his apprentice, the corners of his mouth curving in a mirthless grin. "-was your mother."


	4. Chapter 4: The East

Chapter Four: The East

"_Land ho!_"

Lord Fernando, Praetor of Centralia and Chief Advisor to King Osman, glanced up into the rigging of the mainmast. Sure enough, the lookout up in the crow's nest was pointing off into the distance. He definitely saw _something_.

The _Silver_ _Arrow,_ one of the man-of-wars of the Centralian Navy, had been put to sea from Port Sarim two weeks prior. Lord Fernando had been dispatched by King Osman to carry out a diplomatic mission to Ainuido, the isolated island empire on the other side of the Vast Ocean. In lieu of the escalating war in Gielinor, King Osman had seen fit to ask the Sun Emperor for assistance.

'Asking the Sun Emperor for assistance'. Lord Fernando gave a cynical chuckle at the thought—if only it was as simple as it sounded. The Sun Emperor was many things…but one thing he was _not_ was predictable. The Ainu people were reclusive, isolated folk. Lord Fernando already knew going in that they would require some convincing…seeing the bigger picture was never something the Ainu excelled at.

Lord Fernando could not see the land which the lookout had spotted; the world being round, the lookout was always able to spot objects before sailors on deck could. But the Praetor knew that it was coming…yes, he could see it, now. A nondescript line of black on the horizon. The rich, amber light of mid-afternoon reflected off the water, silhouetting the spit of visible land.

Unless he was mistaken, that was the easternmost coast of Oēn, the largest island of the Ainuido Empire. They were almost there.

Lord Fernando tightened the straps on one of his greaves. He wore leather armor instead of the heavier chain or plate mail; it was not very diplomatic to enter the court of a foreign monarch armed to the teeth. Satisfied that his leather was secured, Fernando turned on his heel and made his way across the deck.

The master-at-arms was bellowing orders at the sailors. Now that land was drawing near, people had to get to their posts in order to bring the man-of-war into port. Ratings climbed up through the hatches. The midshipmen—teenaged and adolescent naval underofficers training on the _Silver Arrow_ to become Lieutenants—took their places along the gunneries.

Commander Naevius, the first mate, exchanged a brief nod with Fernando as he brushed past. Lord Fernando kept making his way down the length of the man-of-war until he came to the captain's cabin at the very stern. He pushed open the door and strode inside.

Arald Harcourt, Captain of the _Silver Arrow,_ turned to glance at Fernando. Upon seeing who he was, the Captain gave a respectful nod. "Praetor," he said in greeting. The Captain strapped his pistol to his waist and shrugged on his blue coat and silver-fringed three-cornered hat. "What is our progress?"

"The shores of Oēn draw near," Lord Fernando informed the captain. As he spoke, the Praetor pulled out his weapons—a prized runite saber and a double-shot pistol—and slid the pistol into his belt. "You slept well, I presume?"

Captain Harcourt gave a low grunt. He had been running on very little sleep this past week—the _Arrow_ had sailed through the edge of a hurricane, and then got into a short firefight with pirates off of Mos Le'Harmless. Though the crew had been rotating shifts, the Captain had been awake for the whole thing. He had then slept for two days straight to recuperate from the sleep deprivation.

"Well enough," Captain Harcourt replied.

"Well enough to handle a brush with the Ainu, I hope," Lord Fernando remarked, slipping into a ceremonial maroon overshirt, which he wore over his leather armor. Once he buckled his scabbard to his waist, he was fully dressed and armed.

Captain Harcourt spared a wan grin, glancing at the Praetor. "You speak as if you are going into battle."

A similar grin tugged at the corners of Lord Fernando's mouth. "I would almost prefer marching into battle."

That got a quiet chuckle from the skipper. "I'm sure the Warmaster would tell you otherwise."

"Old Athellenas hasn't tried to negotiate with the Ainu," the Praetor grumbled. "He has told me on several occasions that he would rather march into Zamorak's Necropolis and challenge the Dark One by himself than get involved in Forum politics."

"A man of strong opinion," Harcourt observed, buttoning his Captain's coat and straightening his hat.

"A supreme understatement," Lord Fernando quipped. "If ever you have the honor of meeting the man, you will agree."

"I pray that I shall receive that honor sometime in the future," Captain Harcourt mused. "But in the meantime…"

The Captain and the Praetor left the captain's cabin and stepped out onto deck.

"_Captain on deck!_" the master-at-arms roared, his voice reaching to the most remote corners of the Centralion man-of-war's deck. Everyone instantly snapped to attention for a brief moment before returning to their duties at the Captain's behest.

Ratings who passed the Captain nodded to and saluted him as he made his way down the ship. Replying with identical gestures and niceties, Harcourt climbed the short flight of stairs that led up to the small rectangular platform that was the steering deck.

"Report, Mister Barret," Harcourt requested.

"Captain, sir," the helmsman pointed out beyond the ship's prow. "Bringin' us 'round yonder point. Perhaps an hour until we make it to port…maybe two, depending on what mood the winds are in."

"Excellent," the Captain nodded, satisfied. "Carry on."

"Sir," the helmsman nodded, returning his attention to the ocean out in front.

Lord Fernando stood back and let the Captain attend to his duties on the vessel. He corresponded with the warrant officers—the Quartermaster, the Master-at-Arms, the Bosun—as well as his first and second mates.

After the promised hour, the _Silver Arrow_ was pulling into a large bay. Three cutters were sailing towards the Centralian man-of-war; smaller, faster ships with the trademark fin-shaped sails of Ainu vessels.

The _Silver Arrow_ could have easily taken those three cutters in a fight, possibly sustaining moderate damage as a result. After all, she was a ship of the line—one of the most powerful in the Centralian Navy. However, thankfully, maritime warfare was not on the agenda.

The three Ainu cutters escorted the Centralian man-of-war through the bay, which was bustling with smaller fishing boats as fishermen tried to scratch out a living with their lines.

"Kātayō…" Lord Fernando hummed, gazing out at the city sitting on the far banks of the bay.

"Beg pardon?" Captain Harcourt asked.

"Kātayō," the Praetor repeated himself, nodding towards the approaching city. "The capital of Ainuido, the Empire Where the Sun Rises."

It was normally a large, shining city. The buildings were reasonably spaced from each other, and they all followed a similar architectural pattern; paper-like walls framed by wooden beams—doors were the same, only they were able to slide—with sharp, curved roofs that were peaked in the center and splayed out at the corners.

In the center of the whole set-up was the Ainuīn Palace, where the Sun Emperor ruled the islands of Ainudo.

The only difference between now and the last time Lord Fernando had visited Kātayō was that the city looked as if it had just been through a war. Many buildings bore scars and structural damage from obvious attacks. Columns of smoke rose into the sky from several places throughout the city, and a few buildings had actually been knocked down.

"Mister Forge! Cast a line!" Commander Naevius ordered one of the ratings who was manning the forward post at the ship's prow.

The rating cast the measuring line over the side of the ship and drew it back up. "Sand and broken shell!" he shouted back in response. "Five fathoms!"

The Captain nodded. The depth was good. "Drop anchor, furl the mainmast, and prepare to launch the boat!"

As the crew scrambled to fulfill their orders, Captain Harcourt beckoned the Praetor to accompany him down to the starboard side of the man-of-war, where one of the small, oar-powered boats was being lowered to deck-level.

"Your chariot awaits, Cap'n sir," one of the ratings operating the ropes quirked.

Captain Harcourt and Lord Fernando clambered into the small skiff, accompanied by half a dozen Centralian marines, broadswords and all. They lowered the boat down to the surface of the sea and detached the lines. Now floating free, the marines took up the oars and started to row the short distance from the _Silver Arrow_ to the docks of Kātayō.

A man dressed in a formal orange kimono robe, flanked by two Ainu samurai warriors, waited for the skiff on one of the piers. When the Centralians climbed out onto the docks, he offered a sharp bow. The two samurai did likewise.

"Akai-Hanako, Marshal of His Excellency's Imperial Army," the Ainu said, introducing himself as was custom in Ainuido. It was considered impolite to not give a stranger your name when engaging in conversation.

Lord Fernando bowed and introduced himself as well, giving his name and position within the Centralian Kingdom. He said this to the Marshal in fluent Kurigana—the language of the Ainu. It was a clipped, rapidly-spoken language that unfortunately sounded stiff and formal, no matter how one spoke it.

"You honor me by addressing me in my language," the Ainu Marshal said, reverting to Fernando's native language of Commonspeak, heavily accented as it was. "Come, let us walk. The Sun Emperor has been expecting you."

Lord Fernando was not sure if this meant well or ill. He then shrugged and contented himself with the knowledge that, for better or for worse, he would find out soon. The Marshal beckoned for the Praetor to join him. Lord Fernando gave a quick nod to Captain Harcourt and his marines, who promptly returned to the skiff and started heading back to the _Silver Arrow_. That done, the Praetor started to walk with Akai-Hanaka down the small street and onto one of the main avenues that ran through the city.

"I must comment, and please do not assume that rudeness is my objective, but I find it unusual that _you_ are the one appealing to His Excellency," the Marshal observed. "When you have visited our halls in the past, you have always come with King Alton. May I ask why you come alone?"

"King Alton passed away almost four years ago," Lord Fernando replied. "Our King is now Osman, his son. He would have come personally, but our kingdom is currently in a state of war; King Osman cannot afford to leave Centralia."

The Marshal gave an understanding nod. "This is only right. An emperor should never forsake his warriors."

"Especially if he has the capacity to send someone less as important as himself to carry out his wishes…securing the assistance of the Ainu, for example," Lord Fernando said evenly.

Akai-Hanako gave a wry half-smile. "We shall see. We have problems of our own, over here, as you have probably observed."

"Yes, I was going to inquire as to why your capital looks as if Zamorak has paraded through it."

The Ainu Marshal raised an eyebrow at the frankness in Lord Fernando's tone. "You put it very succinctly, Praetor. As it happens, there is a rebellion raging in our empire."

"A rebellion?" the Praetor echoed, not sure if he had heard correctly. "A rebellion? _Now,_ of all times?"

"I'm afraid so," the Marshal confirmed.

From what the Marshal said, Lord Fernando learned that a resistance movement against the Ainuido Empire for the past few years. It had started as a series of minor brushes along the outlying provinces on the more distant islands. Now, it had blown up into full-scale war.

"We men need to be united to face the threat of Zamorak," Lord Fernando pointed out, speaking the obvious. "How can we be expected to win this war if we are still plagued by internal strife?"

"If we knew the answer to that, we would have defeated Zamorak centuries ago," Akai-Hanako replied. "And I have been overtaxed as of late, due to the absence of the Shogun, my immediate superior."

"What happened to him?" Lord Fernando asked.

All Akai-Hanako would say was, "He died."

The rest of the walk through Kātayō took half an hour or so. Lord Fernando had been offered a carriage ride, but had politely declined, preferring to walk. There would be plenty of time for carriage rides when the Praetor was an old man. That is, if he even lived that long.

Lord Fernando wiped the sweat from his brow as he ascended the last stretch of stairs that ran up to the entrance of the Ainuīn Palace—which was set on top of a man-made pyramid of sorts. The climb had been arduous, but he still had the stamina to complete it.

Four samurai warriors guarded the entrance, but they lowered their spears and gave short, stiff bows to the Marshal as he approached. The Marshal said something to them in rapid-fire Kurigana and they stood to the side, allowing the Marshal and the Praetor to enter the palace.

The two samurai who had accompanied Lord Fernando and Akai-Hanako from the docks remained outside as well.

Samurai lined the long entrance hall on either side, golden-red standards hanging from the tips of their spears. They stood as still as statues. The only time Lord Fernando saw any of them move was when they blinked.

Another great door lay at the other end of the hallway. Smaller halls leading to other parts of the palace branched out from this main one, but Lord Fernando kept right on moving forward.

The Samurai guarding this last doorway turned on their heels and pulled the two doors apart, revealing a dimly lit chamber beyond.

The Marshal exchanged nods with the warriors as he brushed past, the Centralian Praetor right behind them.

A path of yellow fabric ran down the length of the throne room to a canopy. The canopy was set up like a tent—a cloth roof complete with sides and a back. The front was drawn open like drapes, through a curtain of thin, transparent silk still hung down to the floor. Inside the canopy, Lord Fernando could see a tall, thin figure of a man who was sitting on a simple low chair of wood, his feet resting on a blue pillow. The man was dressed in a ceremonial golden kimono, a simple circlet of pure gold resting on his head, and a katana hanging from his waist. His face was obscured in shadow.

The Sun Emperor of Ainuido in the flesh. Lord Fernando was all too aware how rare it was for an outsider to so much as _look_ at the ruler of the Empire Where the Sun Rises.

The Marshal and the Praetor stepped forward several paces, then stopped and bowed down low.

The Sun Emperor uttered a command in Kurigana. _Rise_.

The Marshal straightened up and took his place to the left of the Sun Emperor. Lord Fernando stood up, but remained where he was.

"Fernando, Lord and Praetor of Centralia, emissary of King Osman," Akai-Hanako, still speaking in Kurigana, addressed the Ainu leader.

The Sun Emperor uttered something in Kurigana, speaking to his marshal.

"His Excellency would like to be informed as to the nature of your presence here today," Akai-Hanako translated the Kurigana into Commonspeak.

"_Akitsukami arigato_…" Lord Fernando bowed out of respect as he spoke, switching to Kurigana himself. "Thank you, Emperor, but I need no translator."

The Sun Emperor said nothing, so the Praetor took it upon himself to continue speaking. "The Dark God Zamorak has stirred once more. Even as we speak, his filthy hordes defile our lands. If we do not unite, if we do not come together to face this threat…the Dark One will end us all."

"I fail to see how the woes of Gielinor pertain to me," the Sun Emperor said in a low, scratchy voice. It was the voice that did not seem to be used very often.

"They do not pertain to you in particular, _Akitsukami,_" Lord Fernando countered. "They pertain to all of you. The entire Ainu people; if Zamorak crushes the Centralian Army in the west, you and all of Ainuido will burn."

The samurai in the room quietly sucked in breath through their teeth. Lord Fernando was acutely aware of their hands drifting down to the hilts of their katanas. Akai-Hakano made no move, nor did his face betray and form of emotion. He was a statue.

"You speak…_boldly,_ Praetor…very boldly."

"I speak truthfully."

The Sun Emperor shifted in his seat, rising to his feet. "A man of strong opinion, they told me," the Ainu leader mused in Commonspeak, though Lord Fernando was ill at ease from the Sun Emperor's tone of voice. "I asked my advisors to describe the Praetor of Centralia, so that I might better know who I am dealing with. When King Alton visited my halls, you remained in the shadows, now you stand in the light. You were an enigma to me, and so when I asked my advisors to describe you, they merely stated that you were a man of 'strong opinions'."

"They are not the first to have said that," the Praetor replied hesitantly.

"No, I am sure they are not," the Sun Emperor agreed. The Ainu leader pushed aside the gossamer curtain, stepping into the light. Lord Fernando kept his face neutral and concealed his surprise at the Emperor's appearance.

The Sun Emperor's face was gaunt ghostly pale. His lips were blood-red, and his wrinkles were much more pronounced than the last time Fernando had encountered him. The most unnerving were his eyes…there was a gleam in them, or…well, something was off about the Emperor, something that couldn't be explained in physical terms.

The Sun Emperor smiled. It was a cold smile, though…not the kind that reached the eyes. "Unfortunately for you, strong opinions are dangerous. I sense that you will not leave here until you get what you want, but I am afraid you are too late."

A shiver ran up Lord Fernando's spine, but the Praetor still forced himself to remain neutral. "Too late for what, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I'm afraid I _do_ mind your asking," the Sun Emperor sighed. "The Shogun was similar to you…stubborn as mithril, and a perpetual thorn in my backside…always spouting off about honor and absolute loyalty to this husk…"

Lord Fernando stood upright, his hand straying down onto the hilt of his mithril saber. He had been in the presence of the Sun Emperor in the past. In body, it was the same man, but deeper than that… The Sun Emperor would never have spoken like that. "_Akitsukami_…" Lord Fernando found himself without anything to say. He did know one thing, though; he would not gain the assistance of the Ainu in this manner. "I will take my leave."

The Praetor bowed low, turned on his heel, and headed back for the throne room entrance. He never made it there.

The Sun Emperor gave another order in Kurigana. The samurai warriors guarding the doors blocked the Praetor's path, crossing their spears. The others leveled their spears and quickly formed a semi-circle around Fernando.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Fernando demanded, stopping dead in his tracks.

"Your precious kingdom's time is limited," the Sun Emperor leered. "Soon, that damned Warmaster of yours will be broken. King Osman and the remnants of your armies will be pushed back further and further until Tethys itself burns bright. You came here seeking aid in order to forestall this fate…" the laughter that came from the Ainu leader's throat was enough to make the Praetor's stomach quiver. "So ignorant. This so-called Empire fell to me even before anyone realized. In the meantime, you are a loose end which must be silenced."

The Sun Emperor gave a nod to the Marshal.

Akai-Hanako issued an order to the samurai in the throne room. "_Take him_."

Lord Fernando was in his forties. He could not be considered truly young any longer, but conversely it would also be a mistake to call him old. He snapped out his mithril saber in an instant, twirling it around his wrist and fingers, familiarizing himself with the grip and balance. After all, it had been some time since he had used it in a real fight.

Still…he hadn't become Praetor of the Forum and held the position for so long by not knowing how to fight when needed. It would surprise people how many of the Forum Consuls were actually accomplished swordsmen.

The samurai were driven back initially as Lord Fernando sliced through their spears like they were made of paper. Dropping the now-useless weapons, they all gave a guttural cry in unison and drew their katana, rushing the Praetor all at once.

Lord Fernando sidestepped the first swipe, bringing his blade around and clocking the first samurai on the head with his hilt. He then flicked the saber up and blocked another strike aimed at his neck.

However skilled Lord Fernando was, though, nothing changed the fact that there were a dozen blades to his one. He put up a good fight for a solid ten seconds or so, but was quickly overwhelmed.

One of the samurai managed to twist his blade around the Praetor's saber, ripping it from his grasp. As he struck forward, the samurai twisted his wrist so that Lord Fernando was struck in the head by the flat of the katana.

The Sun Emperor seemed to change his mind after Lord Fernando went down. For a moment, his face contorted in what looked like mild pain or discomfort. His eyes, for that one brief moment, returned to normal. But just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. "Wait," he held up a hand. "Take him to one of the holding rooms. We shall deal with him after we deal with his men in that ship down in the harbor. In the meantime…"

Akai-Hanako issued more orders to the samurai. They all bowed and returned to their posts. One of them picked up Lord Fernando's unconscious form and slung the Praetor over his shoulder. The Marshal picked up the mithril saber and, after bowing once more to the Sun Emperor, strode out of the throne room, the samurai carrying Lord Fernando in tow.

All else finished, the Sun Emperor returned to his seat under the canopy. "_Politics_…" he muttered.


	5. Chapter 5: Shores of Fate

Chapter Five: Shores of Fate

The first thing Warmaster Athellenas noticed was the softness of the bed which he was sleeping in. It was a wonderful feeling; something he had not felt for a very long time. It seemed like a lifetime since he had last come to Tethys, the capital of Centralia, with news of the destruction of the border town of Ephyrn. It had been then when King Osman had dispatched him to the Menaphite Desert to fight the first campaign in what was turning out to be a long and bloody war.

Athellenas felt a fleeting moment of guilt over sleeping in a nice bed while the rest of his men in the desert were stuck with bedrolls, but it was only fleeting. He had not been idle all these years; he had been fighting his whole life. He was becoming an old man now and if he got the opportunity to sleep in a comfortable bed, then, damn it all, he was going to enjoy it.

But, nevertheless, all good things must come to an end. The Warmaster gave a long, wearied yawn and stretched his muscles, working out the kinks. He swung himself out of bed and, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, slipped into his everyday cloth clothing. Now fully dressed, he started to pull on his armor. He handled the battered old pieces of red alloy fondly. There had once been a time when the armor had been a bright, blood-red, when it would catch the sunlight and shine like a sanguine star. Now, over the years, it had become more of a rusty-reddish hue.

Athellenas opened one of the drawers and gently picked up the small, greenish-blue flower that rested inside. It was a spiritweed blossom, given to him by a little girl in Port Sarim just before he and his men departed for the Menaphite Desert. It had seemed to bring him good luck during the desert campaign...hopefully it would bring more for the fight that was no doubt approaching in the Hallowlands. The Warmaster tucked it into his chestpiece so it rested over his heart.

The Warmaster strapped his runite longsword to his waist and picked up his helm, pushing open the hut's door and striding out into the cool, crisp night.

The moon was full and the stars were out, casting a pale glow over the palace grounds. Athellenas had slept in one of the huts near the palace itself. King Osman and Paladin Anesti awaited the Warmaster in front of the palace. The Paladin raised a hand in greeting.

"Good morrow, Warmaster," the King of Centralia gave Athellenas a respectful nod.

Athellenas bowed his head. "Sire. Good morning to you, as well."

"I trust you are ready for what lies ahead?" the King asked.

Athellenas gave a dark, mirthless chuckle. "I don't think it is possible for _any_ man to be ready for this war."

"An answer as true as can be," King Osman agreed. "Though I'm afraid it changes nothing."

"I was aware, Sire," the Warmaster gave a resigned smile. He turned to the side and whistled a brief series of notes into the morning mist. A soft whinny was heard across the greens from the direction of the stables. In a few seconds, Onyx came trotting through the mist to Athellenas's side. Now he was truly ready.

"Our navy will be arriving at Uzer within the week," the King informed the Warmaster. "When they get there, Admiral Straume will welcome your men aboard. Be warned, though; Lord Drakan no doubt has naval power of his own. He didn't become such a powerful figure by not having forces at sea. Be ready for anything."

"I'm sure whatever I encounter won't be half as interesting as what Lord Fernando is no doubt going through in the far east," the Warmaster reasoned.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of the King's mouth. He knew as well as Athellenas how…interesting diplomacy with the Ainu people could get. They were as much Humans as Centralians were, but at the same time were a breed apart, what with their strange and different customs and lifestyles.

However strange of a people they were, though, Athellenas envied them their warriors. Not even the top interrogators of Zamorak would be able to make the Warmaster denounce his legions, but Athellenas knew in his heart that one Ainu samurai was easily worth half a dozen Centralian soldiers, skill-wise.

Athellenas was glad that Centralia and the Ainu Empire had never been in a fight against each other. The Warmaster wouldn't want to place bets on an open fight between the Ainu armies and the Centralian legions.

And that wasn't the Centralians' fault; legionnaires volunteered or were drafted to fight during times of war, but they had different lives during peacetime. By contrast, war _was_ life for Ainu samurai. They lived by their code of honor, whatever it was called, and they trained endlessly with the blade or the bow. Their shamans were also forces to be reckoned with.

Athellenas patted Onyx on the nose and gripped his reins. "I pray that when next we meet, Sire, I will be informing you of our victory in the Hallowlands."

"May Saradomin watch over and guide you and your men," the King bowed his head in respect. "Centralia Prevails."

"Centralia Prevails," Athellenas replied, saluting the monarch. The King turned on his heel and started heading back towards the palace.

Athellenas gave a quick nod to Paladin Anesti, who had been standing silently to the side, allowing the King and the Warmaster to speak in private. "Shall we?"

"Yes, let's," the Paladin grasped one of the Warmaster's hands. "I will not miss that sandy hell the Menaphites call home."

The Warmaster gave a low grunt. "Finally, something the two of us can agree on."

"Don't count on it," the Paladin chuckled. He closed his eyes and hummed a few inaudible words. Athellenas winced as the feeling of getting squeezed through a tiny vortex enveloped his entire body. There was a flash of indigo light, and then the palace grounds were suddenly empty.

* * *

"Warmaster!" the summons came from outside the tent. The voice was unmistakably that of Sir Derren, the younger knight who was Athellenas's direct subordinate.

The Warmaster had only returned to the 1st Element two days ago, and he already felt like he had been here for a decade. The desert tended to make time stretch on endlessly much the same way being home tended to make it fly by.

But today, things were going to change. The Navy had finally arrived, and the 1st Element was in the process of loading all of its troops and equipment onto the waiting ships. From here, they would sail north to the port city of Burgh de Rott, where they would make landfall, regroup, and march east to the city of Hallowvale. Straightforward, simple strategy.

"On my way, Derren; hold onto your britches," Athellenas grunted as he buckled his runite longsword to his waist. He rolled up his bedroll and gathered up his other possessions, emptying the tent.

Sir Derren was waiting outside for the Warmaster, tapping a foot impatiently on the sandy ground. "You're late."

"Late for what?" Athellenas queried, amused at his subordinate's impatience. Young knights were all the same; always needing to be on the move, always needing to be early. "The Navy is not going anywhere just yet."

"No, but it's best not to keep them waiting," Sir Derren countered, not yet willing to give up his side of the issue.

Athellenas took down his tent and rolled up the cloth, packing everything into Onyx's saddlebags. "I presume you came here for a reason other than to remind me of my own tardiness?"

A grin tugged at the corners of Sir Derren's mouth. "Quite. General Sinclair wishes to report that the IV Legion is aboard the fleet."

"Good, good," Athellenas murmured, swinging himself up into Onyx's saddle. "General Dhalit's men should be well on their way, as well. Why don't you go and check on the artillery's progress; Sir Brezhnov's men should be nearly finished by now. _Hyah!_"

Athellenas spurred Onyx forward, galloping through what remained of the camp towards the coast.

The 1st Element had been encamped on the coastline east of Uzer ever since the Menaphite capital had been razed by Azzanadra. Great pillars of smoke still rose into the western sky, evidence of the horrible destruction wrought upon Uzer by the hordes of Thammaron, and later Azzanadra, the champion of Zaros.

Because there were no docks, men and equipment were being loaded onto the Royal Navy by rowboats. It took a lot longer than usual, but—all things considered—progress was being made. The men had been busy in the Warmaster's absence.

"Sir Havarell, a progress report if you please!" Athellenas hollered over to his cavalry commander.

The lean, gray-haired knight in charge of the 1st Element's mounted forces gave the Warmaster a rough estimate of the number of his forces that had already been loaded aboard the Navy. That number, too, seemed to be almost near the complete number of cavalrymen.

Athellenas maneuvered Onyx into one of the larger skiffs, which was being loaded with artillery pieces from Sir Brezhnov's gunnery. The trip from the shore to the _Resolute,_ the flagship of the Royal Navy, took about ten minutes.

Two ratings led Onyx away to the stables belowdecks as the skiff's complement was taken aboard.

Athellenas strode onto the deck of the _Resolute,_ exchanging a nod and salute with Hathorum, the commander of the _Reolute's_ complement of marines.

Admiral Straume was at the base of the mainmast, observing a young midshipman who was leading a team of ratings in unfurling the mainsail. The Admiral was the Fleetmaster of the Royal Navy. He was a man of shorter stature, but he looked like he was made for the see, much in the same way Athellenas looked bred for combat.

He had the craggy, weather-beaten features of a man who spent most of his time at sea. His eyes were a faded blue, there was a scar running down the right side of his face, and his thick black beard had been drawn and braided into two separate plaits—classic Fremmenik style. Basically, he looked like the image of a pirate captain, albeit one in a deep blue Royal Navy greatcoat adorned with silver epaulettes.

"Figured we'd cross paths again, Warmaster," the Fleetmaster greeted Athellenas, tipping his three-cornered hat.

"The honor is mine, Admiral," Athellenas clasped his fist to his heart in a salute.

As the remainder of the 1st Element boarded the Royal Navy fleet, Athellenas filled Admiral Straume in on what had transpired in the Menaphite Empire since the 1st Element had landed near Iunu several months ago. The Fleetmaster listened with varying amounts of disbelief and interest as the Warmaster described the demons his men had slain, the horrors they had endured, and the challenges they had overcome.

"A story destined for the history books, no doubt," Straume declared. "And to think I had it bad with those infernal pirates off the coasts of Karamja. At least those battles were fought on relatively equal terms…I could never imagine marching on an elder demon."

"Pray that you never have to," Athellenas agreed.

By mid-afternoon, the last of the 1st Element's supplies had been transferred to the fleet, leaving bare sand dunes and short grass where only a day ago there had been a large, sprawling army camp.

A light, but firm breeze breathed up along the coast just as the ratings up in the riggings finished unfurling the mainsail. The great swathes of cloth caught the winds, ballooning outward.

"You see?" Admiral Straume gestured to the sails and the other ships, which were beginning to lazily turn towards the north, heading with the wind. "Saradomin sending us his regards, no doubt. Though if he _really_ wanted to help us, he should get his holy, divine arse out of Entrana and fight alongside us."

"If Saradomin acted in that manner, Zamorak would likely leave his Necropolis in the Wilderness and fight in person as well," Athellenas reasoned. "That would tear the world apart; two Gods directly fighting each other. Two Gods' _armies_ fighting each other are already doing enough damage."

"I s'pose you're right," Straume conceded. "Bah, ground warfare is a nasty business, wot. Gaining victory only if more of the enemy gets hacked up than you…out here, it's nice and simple. Sink the ship, and it's all over."

The crew of the _Resolute_ quickly got to their posts, spurred on by the lieutenants and warrant officers, while most of Athellenas's men filed down belowdecks. The Admiral ordered the anchor pulled up and the rest of the sails unfurled. By the time these orders had been carried out, the northerly wind was taking the _Resolute_ up and away from the Mesaphite desert at a good, steady speed.

Admiral Straume took in a deep breath, savoring the smell of the ocean and the feeling of sea-spray dampening his face. "A good wind," the Fleetmaster declared, grasping the rail with one of his hands and spreading the other out to the wind. "We should come to the shores of the Iceyene's lands within a week."

"I hope so…" Athellenas murmured, gazing out beyond the prow of the flagship, as if he were already trying to catch a glimpse of the Hallowlands. "If half of what the Iceyene queen tells King Osman is true, they're going to need help _fast_."

"If they haven't fallen already," Straume added darkly, turning from the rail to face the Warmaster. "I've been around these parts longer than you; I've heard the reports our outposts are sending. Drakan's been hitting the Iceyene pretty hard, but apparently Zamorak, instead of bolstering Thammaron down here, sent his next wave of monsters into the Hallowlands."

Athellenas gave a low grunt. "No doubt to dissuade Lord Drakan from simply taking everything in his own name, and then declaring himself independent. That would cook the Dark One's grills pretty good…"

"And if he takes out the Hallowlands, Centralia will be without allies," Straume finished. "But it gets better…that horde he sent is being commanded by a Mahjarrat. Zemouregal, I believe his name was…"

Athellenas's stomach lurched at the name. He remembered all too well the destruction the Mahjarrat Azzanadra had wrought upon Thammaron and his massive army…now, Athellenas couldn't help but picture that same level of power, only focused upon his own men. It wasn't a pretty thought.

The Warmaster gently eased those thoughts from his mind. If his men were destined to die by the hand of a Mahjarrat, he would deal with it when the time came. Until then, he needed to focus on getting to Hallowvale.

_Hallowvale_… Athellenas knew that Centralia was where the fate of Gielinor would be decided…but Hallowvale was where the fate of _Centralia_ would be decided. And no matter how much he tried to resist such thoughts, Athellenas could not help but picture Zamorak's filth sweeping through the forests of his homeland.

With the fall of the Menaphite Empire, each passing day made the fall of Centralia seem more and more possible.


	6. Chapter 6: Rest and Regroup

Chapter Six: Rest and Regroup

As cities went, Aeriose wasn't exactly the most majestic place in Centralia. In truth, it looked like a huge slum, sprawled along the west shore of the River Lum. Being so close to where the Lum opened up into the ocean, it was one of the most lawless parts of the kingdom, home to pirates, brigands, and thugs of all kinds. It was also one of the main places on the river where people could cross over to the Menaphite side of the Lum.

Of course, no one ever ventured into the burned, destroyed ruin that was the Menaphite Empire, anymore. Thammaron's little march through the Menaphites' home had put the kibosh on travel through that region.

And yet, life in the Centralian border city went on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Avis had spent his entire life in the city of Ullek. The boy was no stranger to large cities…but Aeriose was nothing like Ullek. Ullek had been the bustling marketplace, the pulsing center of Menaphite culture. Aeriose was a backwater, almost run-down place.

The citizens were grimy, and when they looked at someone they were usually gauging how easy of a target they would be for a mugging.

Jerrod had to dissuade a few shady individuals from making a move several times along the way. The Cleric was personally glad that he did not have to actually fight anyone; he was in bad enough condition as it was.

The sun had gone down a while ago, blanketing the city in darkness. The narrow, winding streets were now illuminated by irregularly placed street lights, as well as lanterns in the windows.

"How are you holding up, son?" Jerrod asked Avis as they turned onto the next street.

"I'm fine," the boy replied, doing his best to sound indifferent. In truth, the pain in his shoulder was killing him. During his fight with the Mahjarrat Enakhra, he had been hit in the shoulder by a burst of fire and and been badly burned as a result, but there had been no time to heal it.

"We're almost there," Jerrod reassured him. "Just a little bit farther…"

"Hey, _buddy,_" a man appeared out of an alleyway and stepped towards Jerrod. Avis only caught the glint of light reflecting off the mugger's knife as he thrust it towards the Cleric.

Jerrod effortlessly sidestepped the thrust and brought his staff around, cracking the thug on the back of the head, knocking him unconscious and walking on as if nothing had happened.

The Cleric winced as he forged on ahead. He had received a thorough beating from Enakhra, as well. It hadn't been the first time he had crossed the she-Mahjarrat, but each incident was certainly a fresh reminder of just how dangerous Enakhra was.

Avis cast several glances over his shoulder at the unmoving form of the mugger who they had left behind before surreptitiously eyeing up his old mentor. Avis was not ignorant of Jerrod's fighting skills, but the Cleric never ceased to surprise him.

Finally, the pair reached a ramshackle inn at the end of this particular street. The place sat in a large junction of five different streets. Jerrod knew that the locals had dubbed it the Five Points Crossroads, and it was home to some of the more shady characters of Aeriose.

Paying no heed to the Five Points's reputation, Jerrod strode across the square and pushed open the entrance to the inn and walked right inside, Avis staying close behind him.

About a dozen or so men and women were lounging in the bar, hunched over tankards of ale, passed out on the floor, or sitting silently at the tables. One or two of them turned a curious eye towards the disheveled, singed older man and the likewise-burned boy who was following him. Their interest quickly disappeared, however, and they returned their attention to their drinks.

"Hold it right there!" a light, accented voice commanded. Avis looked around Jerrod's midsection and saw that it was the innkeeper who had spoken. The tall, grizzled old man had put down the mug that he'd been cleaning and picked up a crossbow, which was aimed right at Jerrod's chest.

"Really, Seamus; a simple _hello_ would suffice," Jerrod said to the old man.

"I thought you died," the bearded old man said almost accusingly.

"Sorry to disappoint," Jerrod grunted.

The innkeeper cautiously lowered his crossbow. The tenants hadn't even reacted in any way to Seamus's actions. Noticing an innkeeper aiming a weapon at a stranger would require them to pay attention to something other than their drinks.

"Who the hell told you I _died?_" Jerrod asked after the crossbow was safely out of sight. "Don't tell me it was the Church."

"Well, no one said you actually _died_…" Seamus admitted. "But you were Jerrod the Lightbringer, greatest of the Priori of Saradomin. Suddenly disappearing, never to be heard from again...well, that wasn't exactly your style. Rumor had it that you died fighting a werewolf clan north of the Hallowlands."

"Don't put too much faith in what drunkards say, Seamus," Jerrod scoffed. "For one thing, that was over twenty years ago. And I didn't fight a werewolf clan; I fought _three_ werewolf clans with Warmaster Athellenas, back when he was a senior centurion, and we killed every last one of them."

"_Mm_," the innkeeper grunted. "Yeah…yeah, that's sounds a lot more likely than those rumors."

"I figured. Now, enough chat. I need a room."

The innkeeper reached below the bar counter and pulled out a key, tossing it to Jerrod, who caught it with one hand. "Your usual room, Lightbringer…" Seamus squinted at Avis to get a better look at him. "Now who in damnation is the kid? That your son, Jerrod?"

The Cleric let out a loud bark of laughter as he started to head towards the flight of spiral stairs in the corner of the room that led up through the ceiling. "Heavens, no. If you knew his mother, you'd understand."

Not knowing the ugly truth behind the Cleric's response, the innkeeper simply gave a muted chuckle and returned his attention to cleaning up his bar, allowing Jerrod and Avis to climb up the stairs unmolested.

"Old acquaintance of mine," Jerrod explained to the boy as they reached the single door at the top of the stairs, slipping the key into the lock and turning it. "I've used this place as one of my safehouses for more years than I care to remember."

Avis gritted his teeth as a new wave of pain lanced through his burned shoulder. "Could we hurry up with the healing, please?"

Jerrod pushed open the door and followed the boy into the room, locking the door behind him. "Your shoulder first, then I will tend to my ribs…I'm afraid your mother packs more of a punch than she lets on."

"She is _not_ my mother," Avis snapped.

"Oh, my mistake," Jerrod rolled his eyes, leaning his staff against one of the beds and sitting down, beckoning the boy to sit on the other bed. "You mother must be one of the dozens of _other_ female Mahjarrat…oh, wait…that's _right;_ Enakhra's the only one!"

Avis raised an eyebrow, not affected very much by his mentor's sarcasm. Quite the opposite; he was used to it by now. But still…when the issue of where he came from arose…

"What proof do you have that she is my mother?" the boy demanded.

Jerrod pulled over the bucket that had been set on the floor to catch dripping water. It was filled almost to the brim. "I know for a fact that your mother is Enakhra because I was there when you were born, forty years ago."

Avis blinked. "You were there when I was born?" he asked. The boy the frowned and blinked again. "Wait, _forty_ years ago?"

"Yes," Jerrod repeated himself, his tone remaining neutral. He started making smooth, flowing hand gestures, and the water in the bucket coalesced into a long, fat tendril. As he did so, he gestured for Avis to take his vest off so that the clothing wouldn't interfere with the healing.

Avis studied him, waiting for him to continue, but he didn't, so the boy took the initiative. "Um…anything to add?"

Jerrod arched an eyebrow. "Add?" he asked innocently.

The look Avis flashed Jerrod was enough to make the old Cleric rumble with laughter. "I suppose you already know enough to be able to hear the full story. One condition though; _no interrupting_. Think you can handle that?"

Avis nodded eagerly.

"_Bah,_ I'm not so sure you can…" Jerrod mused. The Cleric tossed about the tendril of water and started to shape it as he went into his story. "I was a Church Novitiate at the time. I had been a Paladin-in-training for barely a year, but I progressed with magic a lot faster than my peers. In recognition of this, I was chosen to be part of a joint mission, carried out both by Paladins of the Church, and by several of the best fighters from the Centralian Legions."

The Cleric manipulated the tendril of water, compressing it into a spinning disk.

"Hold up!" Avis held up a hand. "Back to the _forty years ago_ part."

"Whatever happened to _don't interrupt?_ Did it ever occur to you that the answer you seek just might lie in what I am about to tell you?" Jerrod posed the question in the same, nonchalant tone. Avis knew that Jerrod meant it as a rhetorical question, so he did not answer it. "Of course, if my spontaneous desire to tell you of your birth—in lieu of the revelation of your mother's identity—is _boring_ you in some way…"

"Master, I apologize," Avis offered through gritted teeth. "Go on."

Jerrod gave a light, almost invisible grin. Perhaps there was hope for this boy yet. He manipulated the spinning disk of water and pressed it down _into_ Avis's shoulder.

The boy winced and bolted upright at the sudden shock, but any pain that had flared up was quickly suppressed. A cool, soothing sensation spread throughout Avis's shoulder, arm, and chest. The boy risked a glance down at his shoulder, and his eyebrows still shot up his forehead at what he saw.

He had seen Jerrod use healing magic many times before, but each time was still as interesting as the last. The spinning disk of water had enveloped his entire shoulder, making it seem as if he was wearing a sleeve of water. The water was glowing a soft turquoise as it did its work. Gradually, it grew brighter and brighter, until it looked like Avis was wearing pure light, then it simply vanished, absorbed into the boy's arm. When the light vanished, the skin on Avis's shoulder was whole and unblemished, as if it had never been burned at all.

Avis cautiously worked his arm around, moving it side to side, then up and down. To his delight, the pain was all gone. He was healed.

Jerrod took a moment to observe his handiwork. He gave a low grunt and nodded approvingly to himself. "Best way to become an expert healer is when you constantly put yourself in situations that give you horrible wounds…it's either get proficient at healing yourself, or die."

Avis sat quietly as Jerrod returned his attention to the bucket and started to conjure up more water for his own injuries sustained in the fight with Enakhra. When it didn't seem like the Cleric was going to continue speaking, the boy stepped in and reminded him, "You were talking about your mission with the Centralians?"

"_Hm?_" Jerrod glanced up, but quickly remembered where he had left off. "Yes, right. Our team was led by Uther the Enlightened, one of the Priori of the Church at the time. We had been sent by Saradomin himself to the island of Crandor," Jerrod recounted, drawing out another disk of water from the bucket and beginning to apply it to his torso. "All the Old Man would talk about was this prophecy he had found on the Stone of Jas which—in a nutshell—foretold the birth of an individual who would end the God Wars. Apparently, that time had come. It also gave the location; Crandor Island."

Avis started to ask yet another of his endless questions, but a quick glare from Jerrod deterred him from actually speaking.

"We landed on Crandor without being detected by the monsters Zamorak had stationed there. And I'm sure you can guess who we found there."

"My mother?"

Jerrod gave a slow nod. "She was in a much weaker state than normal, as she had just given birth to a newborn Mahjarrat child. _You_. Enakhra and her lackeys were surprised by our attack...but only for an instant. She proved to be far more deadly than any of us had ever imagined. Granted, we weren't there on Crandor to kill her; we were there there to recover _you_."

Avis, for a brief moment, was tempted to ask if they had succeeded, but quickly realized how foolish of a question that would have been. Had the Saradominists succeeded, he would never have grown up in Ullek.

"I fought alongside one of the younger Centralian soldiers; he was a newly-promoted centurion from the IV Legion. We kept each other alive…my magic and his sword, they were like two halves of a whole…" the Cleric's voice trailed a way somewhat as he immersed himself in the memories. "If only you could have seen us fight that day… But enough reminiscing. We actually managed to get hold of you while fighting Enakhra, but she blasted you with some sort of spell and you vanished."

Avis blinked. "Vanished? That's it? Where did I go?"

"No idea," Jerrod shrugged. "All I know is that thirty years later, a comet fell from the sky over the Menaphite desert, and my old friend Farrah happened to be passing by the site of impact, where he found you…exactly the way you were before Enakhra took you. You may have been taken to another plane of existence, or perhaps you were sent into some sort of limbo for an instant, which would explain why you didn't age in those thirty years."

Avis lay down flat on his cot, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Why are you telling me this, all of a sudden?"

"I'm not entirely sure…" Jerrod murmured. "If you must know, my plans for training you have pretty much been derailed. Zamorak has sent out his very best to track you down, boy…your mother may be our most dangerous enemy out there, but she sure as hell can't be the only one. We need to be constantly vigilant."

Mentor and student sat in silence for a minute, taking a small break from their deep conversations, which got exhausting after too much talking. After a minute or so, though, Avis broke that silence with one last question about Jerrod's story. "So…what happened to you and your friends? How did you get off Crandor?"

A mirthless grin tugged at the corners of the Cleric's mouth. "That IV Legion centurion I fought alongside was the only other man aside from myself who left Crandor alive. Uther the Enlightened was slain by Enakhra herself, and all of the others had been felled while I fought to get you. I managed to teleport away with the centurion. I gave my report to the Priori…then I never spoke of that day again. Until today, that is…"

"And the centurion? What happened to him?"

Jerrod's grin grew a little larger. "Oh, I'd say he did rather well for himself. He's the current Centralian Warmaster."

"Are we going to stay here for very long?" Avis asked next, veering the topic of discussion in a new direction.

The Cleric shook his head, lying down on his bed as well. "No, boy. Cities are not our friends. We shall rest, for now. Then tomorrow, we shall acquire food and supplies, and then we will leave."

"Where?"

Jerrod muttered something under his breath. Forget teaching the boy the elements; he should just find a way to weaponize his infernal curiosity. He could bring Zamorak to his knees with endless barrages of questions…

The Cleric allowed himself a quiet chuckle at the thought. "We will travel north, to the Avarrockan Hills, where I will begin instructing you in Earth Magic."

"_Earth_ magic?" Avis bolted upright. "Already? But…but, I haven't mastered Water, yet, and I still need to practice with my sword—"

"It's called _multitasking,_ boy," Jerrod declared. "Start getting good at it. But enough talk of the future. We'll just have to take each day as it comes. But I just want you to know that it will not be easy…quite the contrary, it will get more and more difficult. But I think you can handle it. You _are_ a Mahjarrat."

"Don't feel much like one…" the boy muttered.

"Oh, that's just your weariness talking," Jerrod chuckled as he closed his eyes and settled back into a more comfortable position. "Get some rest, then eat something. You'll feel right as rain."

Avis closed his eyes as well, hoping the Cleric was right.


	7. Chapter 7: An Unexpected Helping Hand

Chapter Seven: An Unexpected Helping Hand

Lord Fernando was not having a good day. As Praetor of the Centralian Forum, he had had his fair share of bad days...but this one had to take the cake.

The Praetor had been unceremoniously tossed into the dungeon below the palace like a load of old garbage. He had been left with his leather armor, but his gladius and pistol had been confiscated. A lone Ainu warrior stood guard outside the cell. Fernando had tried making conversation with him, but it was useless; the man could have made a statue feel stonewalled.

Fernando gazed out the tiny window. He wasn't able to see the _Silver Arrow_ from this vantage point, but he knew it was still out there, floating in the harbor. He clenched a fist, and then released it. He had no idea what had happened to the Sun Emperor; he did not know _why_ the Ainu leader had ordered him imprisoned and executed, but he _did_ know that his men down in the harbor posed a significant threat to the city. The Sun Emperor would have them killed, too, and there was nothing Fernando could do about it.

At one point during his long wait, the Praetor could have sworn he had heard cannonfire from the direction of the harbor, but he couldn't be sure. Not that it mattered, anyway; he was never getting out of here anytime soon.

The Praetor rose from his blanket and started to pace up and down the cell. He had no idea how long he had been incarcerated. Four hours, maybe five? It had been sunset when he and the Ainu Marshal had been granted audience with the Sun Emperor, and the sky was now pitch black. The eastern horizon had the faintest tinge of blue, though...so morning couldn't be far off.

The dungeon entrance swung open and another samurai walked in, the flickering torchlight behind him making him a dark silhouette. He was presumably the current guard's replacement; they rotated in shifts.

Lord Fernando returned to his blanket, not bothering to engage this newcomer in conversation. The discipline of the samurai was uncanny; they could probably stand still as mountains like they usually did until they simply died from thirst.

How had everything gone so bloody _wrong?_

Things had been so simple: travel to the Empire Where the Sun Rises, meet with the Sun Emperor, convince the damned Ainu samurai to join the war against Zamorak. Of course, things were never simple when the Ainu were involved, but Lord Fernando had not been expecting complications such as the Sun Emperor ordering him to be executed without giving a reason.

Something was definitely amiss. The man Fernando had spoken with had been the Sun Emperor...and yet, at the same time, he _hadn't_ been. Almost as if he were-

Lord Fernando was jerked out of his reverie by the dull thud of a body hitting the ground. The Praetor gaped in shock as the samurai who had just walked in wiped his katana clean on the now-deceased cell guard's armor. The dead guard still had a look of mild surprise imprinted on his face. No doubt he had been wearing that same expression as the samurai drew his katana in a thin, sharp line across his throat.

The samurai then cleaved the lock off of the wooden cell door and kicked it open. Lord Fernando squinted as the torchlight from the hall outside spilled into his cell. The samurai, based on his posture and movements, appeared to be a younger man; perhaps in his early thirties. He was dressed in samurai armor that was a deep maroon color, a similarly-colored kabuto helmet with the an elegant crest displayed in the front, and an ebony facemask that mimicked a face twisted with pain. The samurai's eyes could be seen through the eyeholes, but the rest of his face was obscured.

"What do you want?" the Praetor rasped.

"Come with me," the samurai ordered in heavily-accented Commonspeak. As Lord Fernando stood back up, the samurai tossed him a cloth bundle.

Fernando unwrapped the bundle. Inside was a runite gladius in the place of his old mithril saber, and his double-shot pistol, as well as his small pouch of lead ammunition. The Praetor swiftly secured his weapons to his belt as his samurai liberator led him out of the dungeon and up into the hall.

Six samurai were waiting outside of the dungeons. When they saw Lord Fernando out of his cell and armed, they quickly drew their katanas and attacked. However, only two of them lunged at the Centralian Praetor; the other four struck at their two comrades, surprising them from behind. The two samurai thudded to the ground and breathed no more, blood seeping from their wounds.

The four samurai gave a sharp bow to Fernando's liberator, who returned the gesture and barked a command in Kurigana. The four samurai sheathed their blades and fell in step behind Fernando and his liberator-who clearly seemed to be their leader. The small party swiftly made their way down the hall and up a flight of stairs, where two more samurai joined them. The unmoving bodies of the spearmen who had been guarding the stairs had been dragged into a nearby alcove.

"Why are you men doing this?" Fernando hissed to the samurai leader.

The leader held a fist in the air. "You talk much, _gaijin_. No talk now," he growled. "We get out of city, you talk then."

"Fair enough," Lord Fernando acquiesced, resting a hand on the grip of his gladius.

Suddenly, the samurai leader struck Fernando over the back of the head, causing the Praetor to stumble forward, and seized his hands, holding them behind the Praetor's back. Before Fernando could protest, he looked up and realized that the leader had just saved his life. A tall samurai warrior stood at the junction of the next corridor, flanked by nearly a dozen common Ainu spearmen. The tall samurai shouted something in Kurigana, and, in unison, the group of rogue samurai quickly gave a quick, respectful bow.

Lord Fernando's liberator and the tall samurai engaged in a conversation in rapid-fire Kurigana. They were speaking too fast for Fernando to get a good hold on what exactly was being said, but he could still get the gist of it. The tall samurai seemed to be some sort of garrison commander, and he wanted to know why the hell Fernando was out of his cell. Fernando's liberator seemed to be explaining that he had just captured the Praetor in the middle of an escape attempt.

The tall samurai was silent for a moment, then reached down to his waist and snapped out his katana, the curved blade glinting in the torchlight. He said something about executing all prisoners attempting to escape and struck, his blade whistling towards Fernando's neck.

Even before Fernando had the chance to react, there was a loud _clang_. The tall samurai gave a start of surprise. His blade had been blocked by the samurai leader's own blade. The tall samurai screamed something that more or less meant _treachery_ in Commonspeak, and recovered his blade, this time striking at the leader of the rogue samurai. The spearmen all gave raw-throated cries and joined in the fray.

Fernando staggered back as the other six samurai on his side engaged the spearmen. The commoners were no match for the samurai; katanas could slice through their spears like lava through ice. Even so, they were not inept warriors; no Ainu soldier-samurai or commoner-was a bad fighter. One of the spearmen dodged a strike from one of the rogue samurai and managed to drive the shaft of his weapon into a gap in the samurai's armor. The samurai stumbled back, grunting in pain.

That spearman picked up the weapon of a fallen comrade and, as his compatriots occupied the other samurai, lunged at Lord Fernando.

Fernando quickly fumbled with his scabbard, drawing his gladius and sidestepping the thrust. The Praetor pivoted around on his heel, all the while ignoring the throbbing pain in his head from where he had been struck. The runite gladius was not the same as his old mithril saber. For one thing, it didn't have the reach of a saber, but the gladius was a much stronger sword, and its shorter length also allowed for more dexterity.

Fernando hacked the spear in half and the spearman stumbled forward, thrown off by the sudden loss of his weapon. The Praetor smashed the man in the head with the hilt of his gladius, rendering him either unconscious or dead.

The tall samurai was fending off three rogue samurai at once. As his spearmen fell one by one, the tall samurai fought harder and harder. He managed to gut one of the rogue samurai and slash another across the shoulder. The leader of the rogue samurai, finishing off the final spearman, stepped into the fight and matched the tall samurai blow for blow, their blades whirling around each other in an endless dance.

Finally, Fernando's liberator managed to disarm the tall samurai. He kicked the garrison commander in the chest, propelling the other man back several meters, driving him to his knees. The samurai leader brought his blade whistling around in a swift arc, but brought it to an abrupt stop just as it grazed the skin of the tall samurai's neck. The samurai leader murmured something in Kurigana and stepped back, offering the man a respectful bow. He then knocked the tall samurai unconscious with a swift blow to the back of the head.

One of the seven rogue samurai who had assisted in Fernando's escape had been killed and another seriously wounded. One of the more burly warriors carried the wounded man on his back.

The lead samurai proceeded down the junction, turning down the hallway that led towards the palace entrance. Instead of heading to the actual entrance, however, the rogue samurai led Fernando down a smaller corridor that ran perpendicular to the entrance, lined with barred windows.

One of the windows had no grille; it had been removed ahead of time. The only problem was that it was over thirty feet off the ground…slightly higher than your average jumping height.

One of the rogue samurai cupped a hand to his mouth and gave what sounded like some sort of birdcall. When he got no response, he repeated himself, thought a little louder than last time. This time, there was an answering call from outside the window, and a rope was tossed through the opening.

The lead samurai gave a single command in Kurigana. _Up._

Immediately, the smallest of the samurai pulled himself up the rope, followed by the burly samurai who was carrying his wounded comrade. The smaller samurai reached down once he got onto the edge of the window and helped the burly samurai up.

There was a shout from the end of the hall. Lord Fernando looked down and saw a lone spearman. The common soldier had spotted them and was calling for reinforcements.

The lead samurai repeated his command, _up,_ and gave Lord Fernando a light shove forward. The Praetor took the hint and grabbed the rope. He was still more or less in his prime, so shimmying his way up the palace wall wasn't too difficult a task. The smaller samurai helped him up the final stretch as well.

Once he got situated on the window's edge, he prepared to climb down the other side, but the smaller samurai stopped him. "No. Wait you here for next man," the man ordered in heavily accented, broken Commonspeak. He then grasped the rope and slid down the length of the outside palace wall, joining the burly samurai and his wounded comrade on the ground.

Lord Fernando turned his attention back to the inside just as a fourth samurai was making his way up to the window. The Praetor reached down and grasped the Ainu's wrist, hauling him up the rest of the way.

"_Arigato,_" the warrior thanked him and gestured for him to continue.

Arrows started to clack off of the walls as the palace garrison began to stream into the hall, drawn by that one spearman's calls for help. The Praetor saw a group of archers firing away at the rogue samurai, flanked by a steadily-growing troupe of footsoldiers. That was when Lord Fernando noticed the Marshal of Ainuido, Akai-Hanako. A host of samurai streamed forward after the footsoldiers, but the Marshal barked a command in Kurigana. The samurai all stopped suddenly, ordered to stand down by the Marshal.

Without having any time to wonder why, the Praetor proceeded to lower himself off the edge of the window niche, steadily sliding down towards the ground.

The samurai above me helped another warrior up to the lip of the window and started sliding down as well. The two men reached the bottom more or less at the same time. Within thirty seconds, the rogue samurai leader had climbed out as well, taking the rope with him.

The Anuīn Palace was set atop a manmade pyramid of sorts, so there were no external perimeter walls that needed to be scaled, as was the case in most other royal domiciles.

As alarm bells started to clang furiously in response to the breakout, the lead samurai hustled everyone around the back of the palace. At the back of the palace was the garbage chute—a smoothed, polished half-pipe cut into the slope of the pyramid that ran all the way to a small, open building at the bottom, where commoners would pick up the palace's garbage and transport it away.

The samurai had come prepared. An Ainu youth around fourteen or fifteen years old was waiting for the rogue samurai at the top of the garbage chute. He saw the samurai coming, and leaped into action. "_I have the rugs,_" he was saying in Kurigana, gesturing at a stack of a dozen rugs piled next to the chute's mouth.

The lead samurai clapped the boy on the shoulder and gave another nod to his men. As the samurai broke formation and sheathed their weapons, the leader said to Fernando, "You take rug."

Fernando watched the other samurai each pick up a rug. One by one, they lay their rug flat on the mouth of the chute, then laid down on them and pushed off. The polished surface of the chute did not snag at the rugs, allowing the men to slide all the way down to the city, several hundred feet below.

Fernando picked up one of the rugs and placed it at the chute mouth, hesitantly lying down on his back. The samurai leader gave him a slight push, sending him over the edge. The Praetor's stomach fluttered and the wind tore at his hair as he shot down the pyramid which the palace was built upon. The world was a color-filled blur as he descended several hundred feet in just a few seconds.

It was over even quicker than it had begun. The Praetor came to a stop amidst a pile of rubbish. Fernando quickly got to his feet and hurried out of the garbage hut, where the others were waiting.

The lead samurai came down last. Once he staggered out of the garbage hut, he pointed at the rubbish wagon which was normally used to transport the garbage away from here. As one, the samurai got the wagon ready—pulling two horses from the stable and hitching them to the wagon. The wounded samurai was laid down in the back of the wagon.

The lead samurai got everyone loaded into the wagon, including Fernando, before climbing into the driver's seat and taking up the reins. The warrior snapped the reins and got the wagon moving.

It was slow going at first, but at the lead samurai's constant urging, the horses picked up speed. Within a few minutes, the samurai were speeding through the streets of Kātayō. There weren't many townspeople out and about this time of night, but those who were scrambled to get out of the wagon's way.

Before too long, the imperial soldiers had organized enough to try and stop the speeding wagon. Men on horseback wielding bows and spears pursued the fleeing samurai. Several times, arrows had pierced the wood right next to Lord Fernando.

The lead samurai took the wagon around a street corner and onto a road that ran at a downward tilt. Visible at the far end of the street were the sparkling waters of the harbor, where the dim light of dawn started to reflect off of the tips of the waves.

A spear thunked into one of the wagon's wheels, but luckily it didn't hold. If it had, the wheel would have been splintered, which would have send the wagon flipping into the air and crashing.

Another man on horseback drew up level with the speeding wagon, brandishing a spear which he aimed at one of the large, clunky wheels.

Lord Fernando acted fast, reaching down to his waist and drawing his double-shot flintlock pistol. The Praetor leveled the firearm and pulled the trigger. Fire and smoke gouted from the upper barrel of the weapon as the black powder ignited, propelling the lead ball through the air and into the chest of the Ainu with the spear. The man was knocked off his horse and onto the street, where he lay clutching his wound.

The Praetor cocked the weapon, which rotated the double barrels so that the one that had fired was now on the bottom, while the one with the bullet was brought to the top. Fernando fired at another pursuing soldier, but this time he missed.

More soldiers fell into the pursuit until the rogue samurai had a sizable mob on their tail. Lord Fernando struggled to reload and rearm his pistol, but the constant bumping made it difficult.

Finally, the wagon reached the bottom of the street's incline and raced towards the docks. A dozen or so soldiers clad in yellow and orange-patterned armor were waiting to receive them, armed with bows. However, the arrows they fired went well over the rogue samurai's heads, instead flitting into the pursuing mob of soldiers. Several men on horseback cried out as the arrows struck them from their saddles.

The soldiers lowered their bows and broke ranks, streaming into a small boat that was moored at the dock. The samurai leader did not wait for the wagon to come to a complete stop before leaping out. The other samurai hurried out of the back of the wagon, along with the youth and the Praetor.

"In boat! In boat now!" the leader shouted at Lord Fernando as he climbed into the skiff, which Fernando recognized as one of the _Silver Arrow's_ boats. The Praetor jumped from the dock and into the boat as the samurai cast off and started rowing like crazy.

The boat slid further and further away from the docks, leaving the mob of soldiers milling about on the shore with no way to pursue. The Praetor took a deep breath and slid his pistol into his belt, finally able to rest easy.

The Ainu rowed the skiff all the way across the harbor to where the _Silver Arrow_ was anchored. A lantern was unveiled from the deck and directed onto the boat of Ainu samurai. "_Identify yourselves, or you will be fired upon!_" a deep voice commanded from somewhere up on the deck.

"I am Lord Julius Fernando, Praetor of the Forum of Centralia, and I hold grudges for a very long time, so _how about you_ _don't blast me to hell!_" the Praetor bellowed, relieved to hear someone talking in Commonspeak.

There was some muffled discussion on deck between Centralian sailors who were clearly surprised to hear the voice of one of their countrymen.

Ropes were lowered from the heights of the man-of-war, which the samurai quickly secured to the skiff. The sailors of the _Solver Arrow_ worked fast, hauling the skiff up the length of the ship's hull and over onto the deck.

Captain Harcourt stood on deck, ready to receive Lord Fernando. "Praetor," the Captain clasped a fist to his heart in a salute. "Praetor, accept my humblest apologies for not being able to prevent your ordeal," the naval officer said. "Upon return to the homeland, I will tender my resignation to the-"

"That will not be necessary," Lord Fernando quelled the Captain, climbing out of the boat with the rest of the samurai and the Ainu archers. "Even if a detachment of marines had accompanied me, they would have been slaughtered. You are a good captain; one which we cannot afford to lose, right now."

Captain Harcourt gave another salute. "I will do my utmost to prove myself worthy of this judgment, Praetor."

"Though you do not have to, I'm sure you will."

Captain Harcourt nodded. "I'll call it even if I can get us out of this harbor alive."

Lord Fernando arched an eyebrow. "Trouble?"

Harcourt gave another nod. Before explaining, he turned to his first officer, saying, "Mister Naevius, get us underway, if you please."

"Aye, Captain, sir," Commander Naevius, the first officer, saluted his superior before turning and bawling out orders to the rest of the crew. As the sailors scattered to their respective posts, Harcourt led Fernando back towards the stern of the _Arrow_. He also beckoned for the leader of the rogue samurai to join him. The other rogue samurai and the Ainu archers quietly slipped belowdecks.

"Not long after you went to see the Sun Emperor, I was visited by an Ainu samurai by the name of Amōyo," Captain Harcourt explained to the Praetor as they stepped up onto the poop deck above the captain's cabin, back at the stern of the man-of-war. "He is belowdecks with the others right now. He told us of what had happened to you and warned us that the Imperial Army would attempt to put us to the sword. Sure enough, we were attacked by three of their junks, but—thanks to Amōyo's warning—we were ready for them. We sank all three of their ships with our twelve-pounders."

Lord Fernando nodded, remembering the faint cannonfire that he had heard back in his cell during the night.

"There is a full-scale rebellion occurring in Ainuido right now," Harcourt continued. "I'm sure you knew as much from your time spent in Kātayō…but what you probably did _not_ know is that this is no mere breakaway faction seeking to overthrow the Emperor. Rather, they fight against him…and yet _for _him at the same time… This man is Niten, one of the commanders of the rebellion."

The samurai who had freed Lord Fernando bowed as he was introduced. The Praetor returned the gesture. "It would seem that I am in your debt, samurai," Fernando said.

"It matters not," the samurai replied. "By the end of this ordeal, we will be deep in each other's debt. Such a bond cannot be measured."

"Our problem right now is that the Imperial Army heard our cannon-shot, and the Ainu loyalists will have ships waiting to intercept us outside of the harbor. We will have to maneuver past them and not get bogged down in a prolonged fight."

"You can take us to your base of operations?" Lord Fernando asked Niten.

The rogue samurai nodded. "That was my intention."

"Praetor?" it was Captain Harcourt's turn to raise an eyebrow. "We will provide safe transport for these Ainu rebels, but after that we are returning to Centralia to report on what has transpired here. We do not involve ourselves in foreign rebellions. We have failed."

"Failed?" Lord Fernando chuckled. "Oh, no, Captain. We haven't even begun."

"Praetor, I am under orders from Admiral Straume to escort you back to Centralia in the event of a failure of diplomacy-"

"Damn those orders, Mister Harcourt. Our mission is to secure the aid of the Ainu, and we are not leaving until we do exactly that. Centralia is in danger, Captain. Grave danger. It will not matter if he succeeds or fails in the Hallowlands; Zamorak _will_ march on our home, and he is going to do it soon. We _need_ the Ainu. Failure is simply not an option. We must at least speak with the rebels."

Captain Harcourt remained silent, gripping the rail with both hands. Lord Fernando said nothing, either, knowing that the Captain was thinking.

Finally, Harcourt spoke. "I will have to think on this," the Captain declared. "I do not like the prospect of disobeying Admiral Straume, but… Well, either way, we must first get out of this harbor. We get past the Ainu loyalists waiting for us out there, then I will consider your proposal."

Lord Fernando knew that he wouldn't get a better deal at the moment, so he decided to let things be, for now. The Praetor gave a quiet sigh and turned his gaze up towards the sea up ahead. The twin peaks of Iro and Oyo—the two mountains that formed the entrance to the harbor—grew larger and larger as the _Silver Arrow_ sailed ever closer towards the pass in between them.

The next leg of his journey lay ahead. Considering the fact that he had been locked up in a cell less than two hours previously, Lord Fernando took a deep breath and felt a profound sense of freedom.

The sun poked its nose up in the east, shining down from behind the _Silver Arrow,_ its light reflected back at the Praetor from the waves.

A wry grin tugged at the Praetor's mouth. He hadn't always been a politician. Once upon a time, he had served in the III Legion as a quartermaster. Though his had not been a combat role, he had still fought with a gladius to slay monsters as often as he fought with a pen to secure supplies for the men he was assigned to. He had spent too much time in the Forum, and the feeling of being back in the grit of things was…

The Praetor's grin grew into a full smile.

It was liberating.


	8. Chapter 8: Back to Basics

Chapter Eight: Back to Basics

"Again," the Cleric said impassively.

Avis pursed his lips and concentrated on the lakewater in front of him. He took in a deep breath through his nose, releasing it from his mouth. His mentor had been making learn proper breath control so that he could learn to fully relax his body prior to invoking an element.

Ever since leaving the border city of Aeriose, Jerrod and Avis had been steadily traveling north. They were heading towards Avarrocka, which was located near the northern border of Centralia…the border shared with the Wilderness. In any case, they were traveling up from Centralia's southern border, so it was going to be a rather lengthy trip.

The lush, swampy, lowlands of Centralia's southern reaches gradually turned to thick forest, with trees and plantlife extending out as far as the eye could see. If one were to travel west, towards Centralia's heartlands, the forest would gradually thin out until it turned to a rolling savanna. If one were to continue traveling north, as Avis and Jerrod were doing, the forest would then thin out into even more temperate woodlands, spread out all over the wide, rolling Avarrockan Hills. But the journey would be long, and the change in terrain and environment would be a gradual one.

For now, the teacher and student had stopped for a day or two on the banks of a large lake so they could refill their water supplies. But Jerrod had also found another use for making camp near water; training.

"Water is by no means a non-lethal element," Jerrod explained as he slowly paced back and forth behind the boy. "It is my natural element, and it has gotten me out of many a tight fix during my youth."

"Yes, master," Avis nodded.

"Water is the healing element," the Cleric continued, speaking so that Avis could hear him in the background, but could also concentrate on the water in front of him. "Calmer than Air, calmer than Fire, more flexible than Earth… It is impossible to trap or truly control Water; it will always find a way out of every situation, no matter how small or oddly-shaped. Now concentrate on the water, boy. Raise it."

Avis took another deep breath and spread his hands out, palms down over the water. He concentrated hard on extracting a small amount of water and compressing it into a sphere. The surface of the water rippled and eddied, but nothing came up. Avis gritted his teeth and tried again.

"Feel the energy of the element, boy," Jerrod advised Avis. "Feel it, immerse yourself in it…be one with it. But do not try to control it, for it will always elude your grasp. And relax your stance; you must be as flexible and as free-flowing as water. Water will never be commanded by someone as stiff as a reed."

Avis let out his breath, took another one, and followed Jerrod's advice by loosening his arms and legs, which had started to cramp up. He focused on the water once more. He could feel the energy of the element pulsing just beneath his grasp. Whenever he tried to take that energy, it simply dispersed.

But perhaps if tried a more indirect method…he had the energy of the elements inside of him, so maybe if he could make his Anima Mundi like a sieve of sorts…

Jerrod watched the boy silently attempt to manipulate the water. It was better to get the boy started on these new elements soon, especially Water. He had more than mastered Air during his life in Ullek, and Water was not too far from Air. It was farther from Air than Fire, but it was much closer than Earth.

Of course…it was the polar opposite of Fire, and Jerrod was quite sure that Fire was the boy's natural element. When he had fought the boy with Air back in the swamp, Avis had done exceptionally well…but his fighting style had been more geared towards that of Fire. Unrelenting, rapid, powerful, offensive strikes. Sure, he had occasionally thrown in a block or a defensive stance that was rooted in the art of Earth, but for the most part, his style had been screaming _Fire_.

Water was much different from the fast-paced, intense fighting style of Fire. Jerrod went on to highlight these differences. "Water is a fluid form, boy; you must treat it as such. Master mages all know that the key to succeeding with Water is to make _yourself_ fluid. Water can never conform to any one shape or style; you must remain fluid in your control over the element, fluid in your movement, fluid in your offense and defense. Use your opponent's energy against him. Do not attack the opponent; attack his weaknesses, and make _them_ become his downfall."

Avis gave a triumphant cry as a large, shaky ball of water rose from the surface of the lake. It was unstable, however, constantly shedding layers like an onion. Avis concentrated on holding the sphere intact, but the more he concentrated, the faster the sphere seemed to deteriorate.

Jerrod was right behind the boy, watching the rapidly-diminishing sphere, resolving to win this particular battle. "You have the power within you, boy!" he encouraged Avis. "You are one with the element! Stop trying to control and conform the water; you will not succeed."

"I'm…_trying_…" the boy managed to growl, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead as he fought to keep the sphere stable.

"Stop trying," Jerrod pressed on. "Feel the energy within yourself. Stop trying, and just _do_."

Avis closed his eyes and, feeling the gentle, soothing coolness of the energy of Water inside his soul, relinquished the intense concentration which he had been focusing on the ball of water with. He could feel the energy flowing through him, but he stopped trying to bend it to his will and simply flowed _with_ it…making subtle variances in its path as it flowed on.

The boy realized that controlling Water was nothing like Air, which could be manipulated in almost any way imaginable. Water, unlike Air, had density and volume. It was more solid than Air, which meant that manipulating it was more difficult. To control it, one had to work _with_ the Water, rather than over it. Gradually, he came to see how he had been able to master an element like Air all by himself, but not Water. Air was much more cooperative, while with Water he had to be more flexible.

"Nicely done…nicely done, indeed…"

Avis cracked his eyes open at Jerrod's praise. He saw the older man nodding at him approvingly. Confused, he turned his gaze down to his hands, which he still held over the surface of the water. The boy gave a small start of surprise as he beheld the small sphere of water wobbling in the air between his palms. It had stopped shedding layers, finally stabilizing into a solid ball of water about the size of a clenched fist.

"But…" Avis was confused, because he wasn't actively trying to invoke the element at the moment. "How…?"

"You stopped trying to make the Water your servant," Jerrod explained. "Instead, you made it your partner. You cannot control it…but you _can_ influence and guide it to do your bidding. You will learn a different method for each element as we progress."

"_Great_…"

"Oh, don't sound so somber, little Mahjarrat," the Cleric chided his pupil. "You'll look back on the whole thing one day with fondness, and you'll find yourself missing my little lessons."

"Assuming we survive this war…"

Jerrod frowned. "That's pessimist talk, and I will have none of it. Come, you have done well. It would take most people over a year to be able to get that sphere, and you went and did it in less than an hour. We'll have you blasting trees with proper water attacks in no time. Perhaps I'll even have time to teach you some healing, depending on how fast you progress. But for now…"

The Cleric gripped Avis's shoulder and hauled the boy to his feet. The orb of water splashed back into the lake from whence it came, losing its shape mid-fall. Jerrod reached into his back and pulled out the two magically-blunted gladius-style shortswords, tossing one of them to Avis.

"Now, let's start with the basics," Jerrod said as he swung and twirled his blade in several pre-battle exercise movements, easing out the kinks in his muscles. "What kind of a sword is this?"

"Gladius," Avis replied, performing several warm-up strokes similar to the Cleric's.

"Characteristics?" Jerrod asked next as he stepped into the attack, starting with a high-guard stance, left foot forward, sword held above the head with both hands. He then brought his gladius sweeping down towards Avis's head.

"Shorter-length…" Avis recited as he sidestepped his mentor's first blow. "Wide blade…double-edged…tapered point…" he continued, dodging another blow as he recounted each feature of the gladius.

"Come, come, boy, you're acting too much like the Air," Jerrod chuckled as Avis evaded a thrust aimed at his stomach. "Dodging, evading, ducking; sooner or later you'll have to change it up, or run the risk of having the opponent be able to _anticipate,_" as he said that last word, he inverted his next thrust, which turned out to be nothing more than a feint, and ended up slamming Avis in the gut with the flat of his blade.

The boy stumbled, clasping a hand to his stomach as he fought to regain his breath. He had barely any time to do so, however, as Jerrod's next strike came whistling towards him less than a second later.

Avis, not having the strength at that moment to leap away, instead whipped up his own shortsword in a hasty defense, meeting Jerrod's blade with a resounding clang.

"A block borne of reflex," Jerrod observed, pushing Avis back. "You'll have to do better than that, boy; there are at least four different ways I could have slipped past that block."

"Then why didn't you?" Avis growled, getting weary of his mentor's nonchalance. He stepped forward, switching to a one-handed grip and raining a quick series of blows against Jerrod's guard.

"Simple," the Cleric replied as he calmly deflected every single one of Avis's attacks. "Those countermoves would have killed you, and you can't exactly end this war if you're pushing up daisies."

Avis swung at one of Jerrod's legs, but the Cleric moved that foot back and switched his gladius to his left hand, completely reversing his defense and throwing Avis off-rhythm.

Avis reciprocated, quickly tossing his blade over to his left hand and resuming the fight. Since their first day of training, Jerrod had been drilling the boy in the use of both hands; he was equally as good with his left as he was with his right.

"Advantages of the gladius," Jerrod gestured for Avis to continue, ducking a thrust aimed for his neck.

"Lighter than broadswords or full-length blades," Avis grunted, deflecting a backhanded undercut and stepping out for a counterstroke. "Good for thrusting and bypassing shields…stronger blade than that of a longsword…" the boy continued to list the advantages of a shortsword as he traded blows with his mentor.

Finally, teacher and student locked blades, standing barely a handsbreadth apart in a test of strength against each other.

"Next lesson…" Jerrod, who was having no trouble holding Avis in check, said as they pushed against each other's blades. "When in a lock like this, your opponent will not simply push until you are utterly spent…he will still act."

The Cleric continued to press against Avis's blade, but he gave a sudden jerk forward with his own gladius, bringing the hilt up, around, and into Avis's face. It slammed against his jaw, making the boy see stars for the precious few moments he had before the wall of pain shot into his brain.

Avis was knocked off his feet. His gladius thudded into the earth point-down and the boy clutched at his face, groaning in pain.

"The blade is not the only part of a sword, boy," Jerrod highlighted his latest lesson, tapping the hilt of his gladius. The Cleric then frowned as Avis didn't say anything in reply, but continued to clasp his mouth in pain. "Oh, dear me, I seem to have broken your jaw…"

There had been broken bones resulting from Jerrod and Avis's sparring sessions in the past; the magically blunted blades prevented death, but they didn't prevent blunt force trauma.

Jerrod hooked his arms under Avis's and dragged him over to the shore of the lake. The Cleric streamed a coil of water out of the lake's surface, pressed it into a sphere, and flattened it into a flapjack-like state. The Cleric closed his eyes and began to infuse himself into the Water energy. The circle of water began to glow and sparkle, as if there were a bright light burning under it.

The water settled onto Avis's face and flowed into his mouth, forming almost a cast of sorts around the boy's jaw. Avis shifted uncomfortably as his broken jawbone reset and refused itself. It didn't hurt too much, but it certainly wasn't a warm and fuzzy experience.

"_Agh_…" Avis worked his jaw around, cautiously at first, and then with more vigor, making sure everything was in place. He then cast a baleful glance in the direction of the Cleric. "I should hate your guts, right now. I really should," he said.

"When you master the blade, you shall be able to incur similar wounds on me," Jerrod assured the boy. "But to do that, you must continue sparring with me…and I'm afraid that will mean more injury."

Avis spat a globule of blood out of his mouth, the only trace of his injury after the successful healing. "Believe me, I look forward to it."

"But you have to admit, this is so much more effective than those jokes they call battleschools for squires seeking to become knights," Jerrod admonished, picking his gladius back up. "You're half the age of some of the brawn you'd find in those places, but you've shown twice the amount of backbone."

"How many of those squires do you suppose are Mahjarrat?"

"Point taken," Jerrod conceded the boy's point. "But still…all they do is drill and drill with wooden swords at these wooden posts and straw dummies. Now, how are they going to learn how to parry an overhead strike by hacking away at a log? How are they going to avoid getting smashed in the face by a sword hilt if their opponent is an inanimate object?"

Avis massaged his jaw once more before plucking his gladius out of the ground, rubbing the dirt off of the tip, getting ready to engage his mentor once more.

"Their whole system is so bloody pointless. If the trainees don't get bloodied up by their instructors every once in a while, they don't get it ingrained in their minds that the battle they're fighting in is _real_. The majority of deaths on a battlefield are from men fresh out of training who think their enemy will be defeated by a simple attack pattern, and then they get slapped in the face by reality. Or rather, stabbed in the gut by it…" Jerrod thrust his sword point forward, aiming at the general vicinity of Avis's chest.

Avis did not sidestep the attack, as was customary for him. Instead, he switched to a two-handed grip and brought the hilt up to around his head with the blade pointing down diagonally. As he did this, he stepped out of the path of Jerrod's thrust, but his gladius remained in place to meet the attack.

The two blades met with another resounding _clang_. Before Jerrod could bring his blade back, Avis slid his gladius under the Cleric's blade, quickly working it up and around his mentor's guard, twisting his own blade around the Cleric's.

Jerrod gave a grunt of surprise as his blade was nearly torn from his grasp. Just for the sake of teaching, his first move to counter Avis's twist was to grasp his gladius with both hands and move _with_ his student's twist, bringing the grip of the gladius up and around in a beeline for Avis's head.

Avis saw it coming this time, though, and was able to duck. The hilt of Jerrod's gladius brushed his hair, but it missed his face. Avis pulled his blade back and thrust it forward at the Cleric as he ducked, but the gladius ended up stabbing only empty air.

Jerrod, having stepped far enough around to find himself beyond the scope of Avis's guard, swung his gladius about and struck Avis on the back of the head with the flat of his blade.

Avis stumbled forward several paces. He recovered his balance, turned back around, and threw himself back into the duel with renewed vigor, his frustration beginning to build as Jerrod seemed to effortlessly block every single move he made. However, he was beginning to match the Cleric blow for blow; Jerrod wasn't able to toy with him anymore.

"_Mm_…you're getting angry," Jerrod observed. "That's good. _Use_ that emotion, boy; don't let it use _you_."

Jerrod found himself surprised by the boy's anger-fueled style of fighting as he was slowly forced to go on the defensive. Blow after blow rained down on his guard, at some points seeming to come from virtually all angles at the same time.

Avis finally managed to score a hit as his blade sliced across the Cleric's leg, bruising it and making him temporarily lose balance. The boy seized the opportunity, kicking his mentor in the gut so that he would fall flat on his back.

Jerrod went down, grunting as he hit the back of his head on the ground.

Avis grasped his gladius with both hands and inverted it so that it was facing point-down. He then sidled over to his mentor's side and raised it. However, Jerrod struck with the speed of an angered viper. He still had his gladius in his hand, and as Avis prepared to give the final blow, he suddenly rolled forward and thrust his gladius forward under Avis's raised guard, ramming the point of his sword into the boy's stomach.

Avis wasn't actually skewered by the blade. The invisible magical barriers covering the gladius stopped anything from coming closer than half an inch to the actual edges of the blades, so to Avis it felt like getting struck by a wooden club. Still, it was enough to knock the wind out of him and take him off his feet.

Avis hit the ground without a sound. He simply clutched at his bruised stomach now, his chest heaving for breath.

"You sacrificed your guard for a killing stroke," Jerrod rasped as he pulled himself into a sitting-up position. "_Big_ no-no. Your enemy is not defeated until he is disarmed."

"I…I think I got the gist of that, thank you…" Avis gasped.

"Good…" Jerrod got up to his knees and crawled over to where his student lay, helping him up. "I think that's enough training for today…here, help me get a fire started. After dinner, I want you to practice entering the Ondr."

Avis limped towards the woods next to his mentor, gradually regaining his breath. "Did you really have to hit me that hard?"

"I could have softened the blow, yes," Jerrod confessed. "But because I hit you hard like that, the likelihood of you repeating that mistake is much, _much_ lower. During our second bout, for instance, you ducked that sword hilt strike rather nicely…much better than you would have if I had gone easy on you during our _first_ bout."

"Still…" Avis muttered reproachfully between coughs, reaching down to pick up a handful of dried twigs. "It's not very fun."

That warranted an amused bout of laughter from the Cleric. "Why, of course not! If you were enjoying yourself, I'd be doing something terribly wrong."


	9. Chapter 9: Beat to Quarters

Chapter Nine: Beat to Quarters

The mist had started rolling in around the late morning. The faint scent of rain lingered on the wind; nature's little way of foreshadowing weather to come. However, if there was to be a storm, it was still a good way off. The fog was very thin at the moment, though it was bound to thicken outside of the harbor.

"Steady, Mister Barret!" Captain Harcourt hollered down to the helmsman. The wind had picked up as the _Silver Arrow_ plunged into the strait that ran between the Twin Mountains, which connected the Kātayō Harbor with the ocean beyond. The wind was usually strong in the strait during the late morning and early afternoon, and it certainly didn't disappoint today. The fog cleared a tad as the strait winds pushed it out of the way, but the crew of the _Arrow_ knew that this respite was only temporary.

Lord Fernando stood on the poop deck alongside the Centralian Captain, gripping the rail and squinting against the wind and spray. The strait's mouth was barely a mile distant, and the _Arrow_ was making good time. It would clear the narrow waterway in mere minutes.

After the escape from the palace, Fernando had been expecting some kind of pursuit from the Imperial Navy, but there had been none. Captain Harcourt, on the contrary, had expected nothing less.

"All the Ainu have in this harbor are a handful of junks," the Captain had explained to the Praetor. "Even if they mounted a pursuit, they would not have a Zamorackian's chance on Entrana of catching up to us. And even if they did…we would still outgun them. However, if the Ainu are remotely intelligent—and they _are_—they will have more powerful vessels beyond the harbor waters."

The Captain was right, of course. If the Ainu were going to try and stop the _Arrow,_ they would try to do so outside of the harbor, where their navy always kept an active patrol.

"_Oi!_" the cry came from the crow's nest, all the way up at the top of the mainmast. Willis, a thirteen or fourteen-year-old midshipman under Harcourt's command, was the one on watch, and he was pointing out ahead of the ship. "_Sails ahead, three points off the starboard bow!_"

Captain Harcourt took out his spyglass and extended it, bringing the small lens up to his eye. After observing the shapes on the horizon, Harcourt's only outward reaction to what he saw was a short click of the tongue.

"Orders, sir?" Naevius, the first officer, drew up alongside the Captain and the Praetor.

Harcourt gave the first officer a slight nod. "Beat to quarters," he said.

"Aye, Captain," Naevius gave a nod in reply, before cupping his hand to his mouth and roaring, "_Beat to quarters!_" in the thundering voice that was the trademark of all first mates, military and non-military.

The bell was tolled five rapid times and a resounding drumbeat started to roll throughout the man-of-war.

Immediately, activity on the _Arrow_ turned to a quasi-chaotic frenzy. It wasn't really chaotic, though; it was actually highly organized. All over the man-of-war, ratings and officers dropped and stowed whatever they had been doing and made their way through the crowds to their battle stations. Gun crews either started loading the deck cannons or started to funnel down to the gun decks below. Damage control parties reported to their various stations, and the surgeon made his way down to the infirmary.

The complement of marines on board the _Arrow_, under the command of Lieutenant Althos, also reported to their stations, joined by Cicero, the ship's Paladin. The master-at-arms was distributing spears and cutlasses to sailors who weren't part of a gun crew. If the _Silver Arrow_ ended up getting boarded, the marines would be doing the bulk of the actual fighting; but it would be foolish to leave the sailors unarmed.

Still...Lord Fernando wouldn't want to see Ainu samurai within a kilometer of this ship—excluding, of course, the rogue warriors who had liberated him from the palace.

"May I have a look, Captain?" Lord Fernando gestured at the spyglass.

"By all means," Captain Harcourt handed the Praetor the instrument. He then pointed in the direction which Fernando should look. "Three points off the starboard bow."

Fernando peered through the spyglass and quickly spotted roughly a dozen Ainu frigates, easily identifiable by their fin-shaped sails and their brilliant standards. They were formed up in a rough wedge shape and were gliding through the water with admirable grace. Fernando could barely make out the forms of their sailors prepping their vessels for battle. As the Praetor watched, they began to fan out in a large semi-circle, closing in on the entrance to the strait.

The Praetor said nothing; his mouth simply formed a silent _oh_.

"I hope you have your sea legs on," Harcourt chuckled. The Captain then turned around and addressed Naevius. "You have the gunnery, Commander," Harcourt said to his first officer.

"Sir," the Commander clasped a fist to his heart in a salute and made for the hatches, ducking belowdecks.

"How are you going to fight off a dozen Ainu frigates?" Lord Fernando asked the Captain as he lowered the spyglass, pushing it back into its compact position.

"Hopefully it will not come to that," Captain Harcourt replied, taking back his spyglass and sliding it into his belt. "If you still wish to pursue your goal of securing the help of the Ainu against Zamorak's hordes…well, I do not believe destroying their vessels is the greatest gesture of diplomacy."

"To hell with diplomacy," the Praetor admonished. "You have not laid eyes on the Sun Emperor, as I have…he is beyond diplomacy. The only way we're getting the help of the Ainu is by fighting for it."

"If you say so…"

"I'm afraid your friend is right," a heavily Ainu-accented voice spoke up from behind. Lord Fernando did not need to turn around to know who it was. Niten, the leader of the rogue samurai who had liberated him from the Sun Emperor's palace, leaned against the rail on the other side of the Centralian Praetor. "The Sun Emperor's mind is overthrown. If it comes to bloodshed, we must not hesitate."

Captain Harcourt gave a shrug. "Either way, I would still rather avoid a fight; if not for diplomatic reasons, then for strategic ones. We are one ship, and they are a dozen, and to make matters even worse; most of them have the weather gauge."

"The what?" Lord Fernando asked, unfamiliar with the nautical term.

"Weather gauge," Harcourt repeated. "The tactical advantage with the wind. Not that they need it; their numbers alone would be enough to crush us. But I am not planning on engaging them." The Captain gave a nod towards the west, beyond the line of enemy ships.

The mist the _Silver Arrow_ was currently in wasn't all that thick, but it was part of a larger fog back which was being blown inland by the westerly wind. As such, there was a much thicker fog bank behind the Ainu ships, one that Fernando couldn't see through.

The Praetor suddenly saw what Harcourt wanted to do. If the _Silver Arrow_ engaged the Imperial Navy ships, she would be destroyed by their numbers. If Harcourt tried to flee up or down the coast, the Ainu would be able to trail the _Arrow_ and eventually overtake her.

However, if Harcourt was able to put the _Arrow_ straight into that fog bank…

Captain Harcourt deserted his spot on the poop deck and, with Lord Fernando and Niten hot on his heels, descended the short flight of steps to the main deck, calling out, "Hard a'larboard, Mister Barret!" as he strode past the helm platform. "Put us right through that gap!"

"Hard a'larboard, aye sir!" the helmsman replied, pulling the wheel to the left.

The Captain made his way all the way up to the prow of the _Arrow,_ where he climbed up and stood upon the rail, steadying himself by grabbing hold of one of the lines that ran from the foremast to the prow. He watched the rapidly-approaching Ainu ships, his gaze as unwavering as that of Honoria, the wooden sculpture of a beautiful woman that was the man-of-war's figurehead.

Gradually, Lord Fernando was able to see what Harcourt was aiming for—the space in between two isolated Ainu frigates at the southern end of the semi-circle. There was no way to reach the fog bank without first getting through the wide semi-circle of Ainu vessels, so Captain Harcourt was planning on putting the _Silver Arrow_ through two of the most isolated Ainu ships. A Centralian man-of-war would better withstand a broadside from an Ainu frigate as opposed to one of the heavier frigates that were in the semi-circle. By the time the heavier ships came around, the _Arrow_ would be past them. Ideally.

"Give us all the wind you can, Cicero!" Captain Harcourt hollered across the deck to the ship's Paladin.

"I'm doing the best I can!" Cicero shouted back. "Diverting the wind isn't exactly as easy as hauling a rope!" Even as he spoke, the mage raised both his arms into the air and closed his eyes, deep in concentration. The mainsails began to bulge outward as they cupped the strengthened wind.

Normally, mages could not create sustained wind on such a scale for very long without succumbing to the strain of overstepping the limits of their energy. However, Cicero was not creating new wind; he was simply manipulating the already existing wind and diverting it into a more direct stream right into the _Arrow's_ sails. This task required much les energy, and so could be sustained over a much longer period of time.

Lord Fernando could feel the gradual acceleration of the _Silver Arrow_ and had to grab one of the rails to keep from losing his footing. He observed the sailors with varying levels of amazement at how they could scurry about a heaving ship's deck without even stumbling every once in a while.

The outlying Ainu ships by now had seen what Captain Harcourt was trying to do and were moving to intercept, but even a man as inexperienced on the seas as Lord Fernando or Niten could see that they would not be able to make it in time. If anything was going to stop the _Arrow,_ it would be the combined efforts of those two Ainu frigates, and perhaps the next frigate over if it could move fast enough.

"Larboard batteries, adjust fifteen degrees seaward! Wait for my order to fire!" Captain Harcourt shouted as the _Arrow_ plunged towards the gap between the two Ainu ships. The Captain held his line with a bone-white grip, moving with the rocking of the man-of-war so as to not lose his footing on the rail. His heart had begun to speed up and his stomach started to tingle with that familiar pre-battle reservation. "Ease up a bit on that wind, Cicero!"

Harcourt's orders were relayed all throughout the top-deck and the gun deck below. The gun crews manning cannons that were on the larboard side of the _Arrow_ obeyed the Captain and angled their guns down towards the sea.

"May I ask why you point weapons towards the water?" Niten asked, struggling a tad bit with his Commonspeak. "What does this accomplish."

"You're a ground fighter, good samurai," Harcourt grinned at the rogue Ainu warrior. "You fight with your armor and sword. We men of the sea fight with the wind! Watch and learn!"

As the _Arrow_ passed the prows of the two Ainu frigates, Harcourt ordered the crew to trim sail, and then told Barret to take the _Arrow_ in a larboard arc. This involved turning _towards_ the Ainu frigate to the left of the _Arrow,_ and then leveling out by gradually turning back to a straight course.

Doing so in these circumstances also meant turning against the wind, but the repositioned sails caught the wind more directly. With the wind hitting the _Silver Arrow_ right on her larboard, it caused her to keel to the right, which lifted the larboard side of the man-of-war higher into the air.

The downward adjustments the larboard gun crews had made to the cannons compensated for this shift in balance. Now that the _Arrow_ was tilting right, the down-angled starboard cannons were now more or less on a straight trajectory.

The Ainu frigate on the left was now at an extreme disadvantage; not only did it no longer have a straight broadside—the _Arrow_ was not sliding past it; she was angled _towards_ it—but the Ainu frigate's cannons, which had been aimed at the _Arrow's_ deck, were now pointing at the man-of-war's reinforced lower hull.

The arc also put the _Arrow_ temporarily out of close range from the second Ainu frigate, as she was moving away from it. If that vessel opened fire, the effect its shots had would be greatly reduced by the distance.

The Ainu frigate which the _Arrow_ was heading towards opened fire, sending a volley of cannon-shot screaming towards the _Silver Arrow_. Captain Harcourt couldn't help but wince as he felt the impacts. Most of the shots impacted the reinforced lower hull, and only one hit actually penetrated. Even now, damage control parties would no doubt be scurrying to plug the hole before too much water poured in.

Cannons, of course, were not the most accurate weapons. Some of the Ainu volley hit the _Arrow's_ deck. Pieces of the rail were splintered and blown away. Several lines snapped and the mizzenmast was actually grazed by one of the flying iron balls. Several crewmen were lying on the deck, bleeding from the places where they had been hit with wooden splinters. That was the number one killer during naval combat; the shrapnel from a cannonburst—not the cannonshot itself.

However, now was not the time to worry about such matters. By now, the _Arrow_ had reached the apex of its arc, coming up tight against the Ainu frigate—perfect for a textbook broadside.

"_Larboard batteries fire!_" Captain Harcourt howled. The officers on deck relayed the command with equally loud fervor. Within three seconds, the man-of-war shook and was rocked even further to starboard as her entire larboard side exploded with flame.

Cannonshot roared over the water and slammed the Ainu frigate. The six and twelve-pounder deck guns opened fire as well. The smell of ignited gunpowder permeated through the air, contesting with the salty sea spray. The cloud of smoke from the broadside rose into the air, drifting back and mingling with the mist as the _Arrow_ kept plowing forward.

The Ainu frigate got slammed hard. The majority of its starboard gunnery had been wiped out. Harcourt was sure that the broadside had dealt a good amount of damage to the frigate's internal structure as well. While it wouldn't sink from the beating it had taken, its seafaring days were over until it got repaired.

And that left the other Ainu frigate, which was starting to adjust course to catch the _Arrow's_ stern as it passed by. If this frigate was able to rake the _Silver Arrow,_ most of its cannonshot would hit the top-deck and completely shred the masts. However, Harcourt was not going to give them the chance to attack. The wind was still more or less on his side, and he intended to use it.

The Captain jumped down from his perch on the rail and made his way back up the length of the man-of-war towards the steering platform. "Mister Barret!" he called out to the helmsman. "Bring us around ninety degrees to starboard!"

As Barret turned the helm to the right, the deck crews moved the sails back into their original positions. Cicero manipulated the wind as best he could, but it was difficult to do during a tack, which was essentially what the _Silver Arrow_ was doing.

Steadily, though, the _Arrow_ arced around to the right until she was heading on a course perpendicular to her previous one. With the remaining Ainu frigate's continued forward movement, the _Arrow's_ new course swung her smoothly around the enemy vessel's stern—the most vulnerable part of any ship.

"Starboard batteries at the ready!" Captain Harcourt commanded. "Deck guns in reserve!"

Lord Fernando, as he steadily made his way back up onto the poop deck with the samurai Niten, could hear shouts coming up from the gun deck below as the crews obeyed Harcourt's order and prepped their respective cannons.

Harcourt stepped up onto the steering platform next to Barret, grabbing hold of a nearby line as he watched the passing frigate with a hawk-like gaze. Once it reached a certain position, the Captain cried, "_Fire!_" once more.

This time, naturally, it was the starboard side of the _Silver_ _Arrow_ to belch flame. The deck guns, as per the Captain's orders, remained quiet, though ready to open fire at a moment's notice.

The _Arrow's_ starboard batteries raked the hapless Ainu frigate's weak stern, tearing sizable rends in the other ship's hull. Lord Fernando, as he watched the carnage, could only imagine the state of anything that had been in the path of that volley.

Hitting a ship's stern was the checkmate of naval warfare. When one hits an enemy vessel with normal cannonshot, or even a perfect broadside, there can sometimes be horrific damage. But the kind of damage done is always fixable; getting hit in the bow or sides rarely sinks a ship. After all, the bow and sides of a ship are designed to withstand the constant battering of the elements, and are therefore well-reinforced enough to withstand a barrage of cannonfire.

The stern, however, is a much different story. Hitting another vessel in the stern guarantees horrific casualties. Because there is virtually no protection in the stern—the aft hull is little more than an afterthought when it came to durability—cannonshot that penetrates the stern can potentially gut the stricken ship from stem to stern.

If cannonshot hits the bow, it usually glances off. If it hits the sides and penetrates, its momentum is greatly reduced by the force required to break through the reinforced hull. However, cannonshot penetrating the stern is not slowed down in the least…and it won't simply burst out the other side of the ship; it will have nowhere to go but down through the soft insides of the ship until it hits the bow. Raking a vessel's stern was almost always a fatal blow.

The damage caused to the Ainu frigate was a sight to behold. As the remainder of the starboard batteries emptied their payloads into the Ainu ship, Lord Fernando could see that there really wasn't all that much left of the Ainu frigate's stern. As the smoke cleared, it was evident that much of the Ainu ship was on fire. Bodies could be seen strewn all over its decks, and the groan of breaking wood was audible even over the noise of the wind and water.

The Ainu frigate was sinking. It would submerge probably within half an hour at the rate it was going. In short, it was a job well done on Captain Harcourt's part.

"Bloody fine work, Cap'n, sir," Mister Barret remarked, casting the sinking ruin of the Ainu frigate a sidelong glance as he steered the _Silver Arrow_ past it.

"Thank you, Mister Barret, but we are not out of the woods, yet…" Harcourt murmured, anxiously glancing at the other ten Ainu frigates, which had finished adjusting their courses and were moving to intercept.

Harcourt, however, kept the _Arrow_ on a wide arc around the other vessels. The arc was just wide enough and the _Arrow_ moved just fast enough so that the other Ainu frigates came close to heading off the Centralian man-of-war…but ultimately missed it.

Finally getting wise, the Ainu frigates started moving their thirty and forty-pounders up to their bows and began opening fire, trying to score a hit on the fleeing _Silver Arrow's_ stern. However, firing from the bow was never a very successful tactic. Had ship cannons been more accurate at sea, perhaps it would be more effective…but cannons _weren't_ accurate, so it wasn't. End of story.

None of their shots hit the Centralian man-of-war.

As the _Silver Arrow_ gradually vanished into the nearly opaque fog bank, disappearing from the Ainu frigates' lines of sight, Niten felt that he really had to hand it to Captain Harcourt.

"You have soldier from Centralian Legions fight samurai from Ainu Islands, and samurai win every time," Niten said to Lord Fernando as the last Ainu frigate completely disappeared behind the veil of the mist that had enveloped them, throwing the _Arrow_ into an eerie silence. "But I must say…you _gaijin_ nevertheless know how to fight well."

"In single combat, your samurai would reign supreme, yes," Lord Fernando agreed. "But I think you would find yourself in a tight fix if it were army against army.

"Well, gentlemen, I would say that just about concludes things for now," Captain Harcourt said to his two guests when he finally rejoined them on the poop deck, interrupting a conversation about Ainu and Centralian ground warfare tactics. "With your guidance, Niten, we will set course for the island of Ito."

"My men and I shall give you the guidance you seek through this fog," Niten bowed his head to Captain Harcourt respectfully. "You fight well, Warrior of the Sea. Well enough to make this 'weather gauge' of the the enemy's mean nothing."

Captain Harcourt gave a faint half-smile, gesturing at the thick fog that enveloped the man-of-war. "They may have had the weather gauge, but we had the weather gods."


	10. Chapter 10: Easy Prey

Chapter Ten: Easy Prey

Eight men slipped through the foliage of the forest floor. Many of them were on the beefy end of the spectrum, and all of them wore leather armor of a sort, but they were all masters at traversing the forest floor with the utmost stealth—their 'vocation' called for such skill. As they slid through the underbrush, they made no sound at all.

One of them did not wear the leather armor donned by all the others. He wore stolen chain mail and bore a longsword on his waist that appeared to be made of mithril, as opposed to the assortment of daggers, axes, and shortswords carried by his subordinates. This man was the leader of the group of men. His name was Tullius Beaumont, and he had once served as a sergeant in the Centralian Legions. Then he had deserted the army and offered his services to the local pirates of Mos le'Harmless before eventually winding up on the roads of Eastern Centralia as a highwayman.

He was known by the locals as Beaumont the Blackguard, and he had gained this title through his reputation of brutal thievery. He didn't always kill his victims—_someone_ had to spread his story, and if he killed everyone he robbed, _no one_ would. But more often than not, the men or women he was robbing found themselves without their heads.

"How far ahead, Miles?" Beaumont asked his scout—a skinny, one-eyed man from the streets of Aeriose.

Miles scratched his chin as he observed the signs of disturbance in the foliage—trampled weeds, broken twigs, grass bent at the wrong angles. "Hard to say. These men are traveling light and fast. They're not using the road, either, which makes it doubly hard to-"

"I asked for a distance, not a river of excuses," Beaumont growled, drumming his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

Miles eyed this motion nervously. He wasn't the first scout in the employ of the Blackguard—many of his predecessors had ended up making errors and losing body parts as a consequence. Fully intending to keep his head on his shoulders, the scout swallowed and gave his best guess, which he was sure was more or less a correct one. "Less than three hours ahead, I'd say."

Beaumont pursed his lips, glancing skyward at the sun. It hung high in the sky at its noontime zenith—or at least somewhere extremely close. After making a few crude calculations in his head, he gave a grudging nod. "Keep moving, boys!" he hollered at his men. "We're not stopping for lunch today!"

Though this decision was certainly by no means a popular one, none of the men dared protest their leader's choices. They got their share of booty and loot by working under him, but they were extremely cognizant of the fact that they were easily expendable. The Blackguard ran a force of well over a hundred bandits back at their hideout village deep in the forest—losing a bandit or three for insubordination wouldn't hurt him in the slightest.

The Blackguard's bandits did not stop for lunch. Their quarry, however, _did_ stop for lunch; Miles was able to locate the site where they had temporarily rested. Beyond the campsite, the tracks were much, _much_ fresher. Miles hummed excitedly as he moved from tree to tree, carefully tracing where the travelers had set foot.

Then he heard them. Two faint voices, most likely on the other side of the hill which they were climbing. The scout quickly reported this to his leader, and the Blackguard gave a satisfied nod, accompanied by a malevolent smile. He knew that there was a small lake on the other side of the hill where travelers who knew the land would usually stop to resupply and give their pack mules a drink. It wasn't the first time the Blackguard had attacked people by that lake.

"Find out what we're dealing with," Beaumont ordered his scout. "See how many of them there are and find out if there are mercenaries protecting them."

Some merchants often hired mercenaries to protect them as they traveled the eastern roads. They were the main hitch in the Blackguard's otherwise efficient system of crime, but Beaumont was usually capable of handling them. However, he had only taken seven other men out on this raid—he didn't leave his hideout very much, these days, but when he _did,_ he usually traveled with over twenty men. This time, he had decided to travel light...and if his quarry had mercenaries, he would have to reconsider attacking them.

When Miles returned from his reconnoiter, he brought even better news. "Just two of 'em, sir. And old man and a boy—ten or eleven years old. No mercenaries."

The Blackguard raised both eyebrows in surprise. "No one else?"

Miles shook his head.

Most other bandits would have howled for blood and charged forward upon hearing that news. The Blackguard didn't. He wasn't your average bandit; he pretty much ran his own city. You didn't rise to that level in the underworld without being cautious.

Still...no mercenaries meant no mercenaries... Even though it seemed too good to be true, the Blackguard saw no reason why he should not attack, so he ordered the men forward. However, he vowed to remain vigilant at all times. For all he knew, the old man could be a powerful mage...if anything seemed out of the ordinary, he would leave at once.

When he reached the top of the hill overlooking the lake below, Beaumont saw his quarry. Sure enough, Miles had been right; there was a salt-and-pepper haired, older gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, wearing a dark gray traveler's cloak. There was also a pale-skinned, black-haired boy wearing short cloth pants and an open black vest—Beaumont frowned at the unusual clothing; barely anyone in Centralia dressed like that.

No matter. The Blackguard was not here to worry about their fashion, find out who they were, or where they came from. He was here to relieve them of their gold, then their lives. He drew his sword, its deep blue mithril blade glinting in the sun. He took his time walking down the hill as his men charged at the two travelers, howling at the top of their lungs.

The two travelers were caught by surprise. The old man made a lunge for his satchel, but Rufus—one of Beaumont's beefier underlings—struck him between the shoulders with the butt of his battleaxe. The old man went down with a pained grunt. Rufus hauled him up to his knees. Meanwhile, Lars and Thedric tried to subdue the boy, but were halted when the boy suddenly drew a steel gladius-style shortsword, its point gleaming in the sunlight.

Lars and Thedric kept their weapons trained on the boy, but they did not advance yet.

It had all been so easy, and Beaumont was now certain that there were no mercenaries or guards hidden away in the trees. He couldn't help but laugh. "Don't you know that it's dangerous to travel these roads alone?" the Blackguard asked the old man, crouching down in front of him. "Why, I never go _anywhere_ without my guards," he gestured to his bandits, who all laughed at their leader's joke. Rule Number One about being part of Beaumont's army: all of the leader's jokes were funny.

"Please, sir, I don't want any trouble," the old man said in a shaky voice, his fear as obvious as the nose on his face.

"What a convenient coincidence; neither do I," Beaumont the Blackguard smiled, displaying two rows of neat, white teeth. Again, the Blackguard was not like most other bandits; he always made it a point to maintain his personal hygiene. "You give us your gold and wares, and you get to live to see another day. I'll start by having that staff of yours."

This was a lie, of course; Beaumont had no intention of sparing their lives. He felt like killing today. But the victims-to-be didn't need to know that.

"You...you want my walking stick?" the old man blinked several times, squinting in the direction of the Blackguard. "I can't give you that. Anything else, but not the staff."

The Blackguard's smile dropped a fraction. "I'm afraid you're in no position to be dictating what I can and cannot do."

The old man's brow furrowed in a frown. His fear seemed to be replaced by a kind of indignant anger. The Blackguard wasn't all that surprised—old folk could jump from opposite ends of the emotional spectrum in the blink of an eye. This man appeared to be no exception. "Young man, if you lay one _finger_ on this staff—or on _me_—my grandson over there will chop you into a thousand pieces!"

The boy's eyes widened in surprise as he glanced in the old man's direction. The old man didn't even look at him; he was completely focused on the Blackguard.

Beaumont, in turn, glanced over at the boy, who was still holding that ridiculous shortsword towards the two bandits in front of him. Another laugh bubbled up from the bandit leader's throat. "That little runt? He'll chop me into a thousand pieces? Really?"

The old man nodded. "And then some," he added contemptuously. "You don't believe me, have him fight your best man."

Normally, Beaumont would have simply beheaded the old man then and there. However, the Blackguard knew that he was going to have to run the kid through after he was done...so why not have a little sport with him, instead? And he'd make this doddering old pest watch.

"You think your runt can stand up to my men?" the Blackguard couldn't help but ask even as he gave a nod to Rufus, the strongest member of his current group of men. "We're the best in the area."

"And my grandson's almost the best in the entire land."

The Blackguard didn't even give a reply. He simply shook his head slowly and turned over to Rufus. "Alright, Rufus. Do you have the courage to fight this _terrifying_ warrior?"

The bandits all laughed again—for real this time.

Rufus brandished his battleaxe, advancing on the boy, who looked pathetically small, compared to the muscular brute. "Hey there, boyo," Rufus gave a malicious grin as he twirled his axe through the air. "Keep nice and still, now...ain't easy to fillet a fish if it's still wrigglin' about."

It happened so fast that Beaumont almost missed it. He watched Rufus give a raw-throated yell and bring his axe crushing down in an overhead strike. The battleaxe thudded into the earth—the boy had sidestepped and was already bringing his gladius around in a waist-level slash. Had the sword been of a longer length, it could have disemboweled Rufus. However, it had only a limited reach, so it instead sheared right through the wooden shaft of Rufus's battleaxe.

Rufus struck at the boy again, but he misjudged his own strength. He was used to the battleaxe's weight, which had been significantly reduced when the boy had lopped off the head. In the heat of the moment, Rufus hadn't seen the boy do that. Rufus discovered right then, to his dismay, that he no longer had a weapon. Even before he could utter an oath under his breath and adjust his grip on the axe handle, the boy twisted around on his heel, stepped in close, and buried his gladius up to its hilt in Rufus's chest.

Rufus gave a gurgling groan and went limp, collapsing to the ground with a mighty thud. The boy yanked his sword out of the dead bandit's chest and resumed his defensive stance.

Beaumont was stunned, to say the least. A little prepubescent runt had just skewered one of his strongest men in a fighting bout that was supposed to be a joke. Now, he was determined to spill the kid's blood, to atone for this embarrassment. "Thedric! Lars! Finish him!"

Lars and Thedric both had dull iron shortswords which they rarely used during raids, but were both proficient with in a fight. They weren't the best quality blades, but they still did the job as well as any runite alloy one would. As one, they drew their shortswords and leaped into an attack, aiming their opening strikes at the boy's neck.

The boy met one of the strikes with his gladius and heaved it to the side. He bore down on Lars's blade far enough so that Thedric's stroke only brushed the top of his hair, missing him altogether. He pivoted on one heel, twisting his gladius around the length of Lars's shortsword and ripped it from his grasp. The boy aimed his next strike towards Lars's chest, intending it to become the killing blow, but Thedric pulled Lars out of the way and knocked the blow aside.

Thedric didn't anticipate how fast the boy would recover from his block, and so was completely surprised when the gladius swept back up and lopped off his arm just below the elbow. He didn't feel any pain at first—the shock and adrenaline coursing through his body saw to that. He wouldn't get the chance to feel it, either; the boy's next blow caught him in the neck, cleanly separating his head from his shoulders.

The boy advanced on Lars, now, who looked at his fallen shortsword briefly, then at his friend's headless corpse, before turning tail and running away, having lost all desire to face this devil of a child.

Beaumont vowed to give Lars a slow, painful death when this whole affair was finished. He drew his mithril longsword and gestured for the remainder of his men to attack. The four bandits all leveled their weapons and sprinted towards the boy, but that turned out to be a fatal mistake. In doing so, they had neglected the senile old man, who turned out to be not so senile.

As the boy tried to fend off the first bandits to attack him, the old man pulled another gladius from his satchel, which had been left on the ground when he had been subdued by Rufus. He then joined the fray. Though the boy had proved himself Lars's, Thedric's, and Rufus's superior in combat, the old man was truly a master. His blade slashed, cut, and tore anyone and anything that got too near to it. It almost looked like he was dancing, the way he calmly deflected the strikes against him before quickly returning them.

Beaumont watched his men engage the pair of travelers, and for the first time, he felt some small measure of uncertainty, and maybe even _fear_. Failing in a raid was something he wasn't used to, but it happened from time to time. However, never before had he ever found himself in a situation where his very _life_ was in danger. Maybe these strangers had valuables on them...but the cost of his life was much too high a price to pay to find out.

* * *

Jerrod cleaved one of the bandits from the neck down to his sternum, putting him out of the fight for good. As that man lay bleeding and twitching on the ground, the Cleric ducked another strike from one of the bandit's comrades. While Avis continued to battle the largest of the three remaining bandits, the other two advanced on Jerrod, twirling their weapons like circus batons.

It was an incredibly efficient fighting duo Jerrod found himself facing. The larger man would brutally wear the opponent down with his battlaxe while his smaller comrade would cover his back and sides with a long spear. However, they weren't fighting an average warrior; they were fighting one of the best warriors in Gielinor, and his skill did not lie solely in the blade.

Jerrod turned around and sprinted away from the two men, and they gave chase. They caught back up to him when he stopped at the shore of the lake. The bandits gave a raw-throated growl and charged the Cleric—the first man in front swinging his axe from side to side while the bandit behind him held his spear aloft, ready to cover his compatriot's sides. Jerrod gave a savage grin and dropped his sword. He raised his arms, moving them in calm, flowing gestures.

A long, thin tendril of water snaked up from the surface of the lake, mimicking Jerrod's movements. Jerrod straightened it out into a long rod, around two meters long, and then thrust his hands forward. The long tendril of water shot forward at the speed of an arrow, suddenly freezing into ice as it went.

The two bandits charging Jerrod stopped abruptly in surprise, frowning at the white-hot pain blossoming from their chests. Because they had been so closely spaced—one in front of the other—the spear of ice had easily skewered them both; like a shish-kebab.

It wasn't a fatal wound in of itself—the Cleric had seen soldiers survive worse—but the lack of any medical attention combined with the blood loss would finish the job in no time at all. The two men had already lost consciousness—as they fell to the ground, the spear of ice shattered into a dozen or so fragments.

"I think it's best we moved on," Jerrod sighed, brushing a fleck of dirt off of his shoulder.

Avis, who had already finished off the final bandit, finally had a chance to relax. He seemed disoriented and dazed, as if he had just been shaken awake from a deep sleep. He glanced down at the dead bodies at his feet and his eyes widened, as if he were seeing them for the first time.

Jerrod instantly understood. This was the first time the boy had killed another man. Killing monsters and Zamorackian filth was one thing…but killing other men was quite another.

"What have I done…?" the boy murmured to himself. He hardly remembered what he had done during the actual fight; he remembered the large, muscular man with the battleaxe swinging his weapon down towards his head…but after that, it was a hazy blur.

And now he seemed to have snapped out of the haze…only to find blood on his hands, face, and blade, and the bodies of three dead men at his feet. It could be traumatizing for some people on their first time.

"I…I _killed_ these people?" he gestured at the corpses, his hands still shaking a bit.

Jerrod gathered up his satchel and picked up the boy's gladius, slipping it back into the shoulderbag. "Rather efficiently," the Cleric remarked. "Even _I_ was surprised at how fast you took down the…" Jerrod's voice trailed off as he quickly remembered that now probably wasn't the best time to discuss such matters. Instead, he simply settled for, "It gets easier after the first time."

"I don't _want_ it to get easier," Avis snapped.

Jerrod arched an eyebrow at that as he started to push onward deeper into the woods, heading in a general northward direction. "You know as well as I that you will have to do it again in the future…so why would you not want it to get-"

"I don't want killing to be easy for me because I don't want to be a monster, alright?"

Jerrod's brow furrowed in a frown. The Cleric knew that this was a critical time in the boy's psyche. If the act of taking another man's life damaged it too much…the Cleric had to prevent that from happening, and he had to work fast. "I'm one of the most dangerous men you'll find in this entire land. Do you consider _me_ a monster?"

Avis hesitated, seeing the hole in that logic of his that had been fueled by blind emotion. "…no," he murmured, shaking his head.

"Taking another man's life never gets _easy_. I don't know where in Hell you got _that_ idea…" Jerrod said to his pupil, pushing aside a low-lying oak branch so that it wouldn't strike him in the forehead. "Every time I take one myself, it takes a very long time for the stain on my consciousness to go away. For some people, it never does."

"What about killing things like death knights, or orcs?"

"That's different," Jerrod reasoned.

"How?"

"Those men back there were bandits. They may have done some—or _many_—evil deeds in their lives, and they may not be the most likable people…but they're not inherently evil. Not to say some men _aren't_ evil; because there _are_ evil men…but the vast majority of evil-doers are simply misguided. Monsters, on the other hand…most of the scum that fights for Zamorak…they are nothing _but_ evil. Their only purpose is to destroy. Killing them is more an act of cleansing, than anything else. Why, before I found you, I heard that you killed an entire cohort of death knights outside the walls of Ullek. Do you feel like you have blood on your hands for that?"

Avis hesitated again, but had the same answer as before. "No." But the boy wasn't quite finished. There was one thing the Cleric had failed to mention. "And what about the men who follow and fight for Zamorak? Are _they_ evil?"

The Cleric wasn't able to answer immediately. Avis was asking some deep questions. It wasn't that he didn't have an answer; it was just that he didn't quite know how to word it—no one had ever grilled him on ethics, before. "Those men…" he began, searching for the right words that just weren't coming to his mind. Then, he realized that he had already made an error in those first two words. "Well, that's just it. They're not men. There _are_ no men fighting for Zamorak. Those men are men no longer; their humanity is gone. If you'd ever encountered them, you would know that most of them are little more than animals. No rational, thinking man would ever fight for the force that wants to see the world burn."

Teacher and student settled into a long stretch of silence as they forged onward, moving ever-deeper into the woods. It was ironic that they had decided not to travel by road in order to _avoid_ bandits…but sometimes Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

The Cleric watched the positioning of the sun as it crept steadily westward. There was a blanket of thin, wispy cirrus clouds high in the sky—not thick enough to block the blue of the sky, but certainly not thin enough to be ignored. Athellenas had always been the weather expert—back when he and Jerrod had fought together beyond Centralia's borders, Athellenas had always been able to tell what kind of weather the day would bring; after all, he had spent his early childhood working on a farm in the Far Reaches before he became a soldier in the III Legion. Knowing the weather patterns was a way of life for farmers.

One of the signs of a thunderstorm was a concentration of the wispy cirrus clouds like the ones Jerrod was looking at now…the wind would always push those lighter clouds ahead of the heavier storm clouds which were sure to follow. Jerrod knew that when they woke up tomorrow, it would be a dark gray day.

Finally, after several more hours of traveling north, Jerrod and Avis stopped in the next clearing they found to make camp. As the Cleric ignited the pile of kindling he had gathered with a Fire spark from one of his fingers, he broke the silence.

"You won't ever become a monster, boy," he said as he piled on the larger sticks and blew into the base of the fire in order to keep it alive.

"How can you be so sure?" Avis didn't sound convinced.

Jerrod blew into the flames one last time before resting back against the tree he had sat in front of, stretching out his feet and legs. "You killed those bandits back there, and you still feel like a pile of dung. _That's_ why you won't become a monster."

"Because I feel like dung?"

Jerrod gave a low chuckle, not answering that question. "Being able to kill without hesitation—as I do—doesn't make you a monster; it makes you a good fighter," he said, instead. "It's when you _enjoy_ it, or when you begin to feel nothing at all…_that's_ when you need to start worrying."

Avis thought he understood the basics of what his mentor was trying to say. As he crouched down in front of the campfire, holding out his hands to the flames in order to warm them, he asked, "Mind telling me what was with the senile old fool act? You could have killed those men in the blink of an eye."

Jerrod arched an eyebrow at that, like he was surprised the boy hadn't figured out why. "Yes, I could have…but if I had done that, you wouldn't have gotten any hands-on sword training, would you?"

Avis and Jerrod settled in and gazed at the steadily-burning campfire. The flames cast dancing shadows across their faces. Avis was fascinated by the element—how _alive_ it seemed, without actually being alive or even having any substance. What a strange force of nature, fire was. People had all kinds of uses for it, knew how to create, use, and manipulate it in so many ways…but no one really knew _what_ it was. At least, no one Avis had ever met.

After another long stretch of silence—broken only by the crackling of the burning logs and the omnipresent chirping of the wildlife in the dark trees surrounding the clearing—Avis became aware of his mentor eyeing him from across the flames.

"What?" the boy asked finally.

"_You,_" was all Jerrod initially said in response, but he went on to elaborate. "I don't think you know how much of an enigma you truly are… Having qualms about killing others is very…un-Mahjarrat-like. I have to say, I'm surprised. Surprised…and glad."

"Un-Mahjarrat-like…" Avis echoed the Cleric. "I feel the same things you feel. What do you know of Mahjarrat?"

"More than I want to," Jerrod replied. "Our brief encounter with your mother, back in the swamp, has given you but a small taste of their true nature. They are violent, ruthless, cruel creatures of war. Killing and bloodshed are their pastimes."

"That's not true!" Avis protested. "We aren't-"

"No, _you_ aren't anything at all like that," Jerrod corrected the boy before he could finish his sentence. "Please don't mistake my attitude towards your people as racism, boy. I judge each individual for their own actions—not the actions of their peers. The problem with the Mahjarrat is that _every one of them_ acts this way. Every one. Zarosian or Zamorackian, traitor or loyalist—it makes no difference. But then, a couple of months ago, something extraordinary happened. I found an exception. _You._"

Avis was silent. He had no argument with his mentor's last statement, but still…he didn't like the idea that there wasn't another decent member of his species in Gielinor. Knowing that he was nothing like his elders made him feel more alone than ever.

"You're a killer, boy. A killer and a fighter—it's in your blood," Jerrod said to the boy, repeating his earlier points. "But you're no monster, and you never will be. In fact, you're living proof that Mahjarrat are not inherently the violent, bloodthirsty creatures that they come across as."

"Oh?"

"You grew up among humans in a relatively peaceful city…had Athellenas and I not taken you from your mother forty years ago, Enakhra would have raised you quite differently…" The Cleric shuddered at the thought. He knew Enakhra would have twisted and warped her son's mind so that he would become a servant of Zamorak. He wouldn't be recognizable.

"But you proved that—given a relatively normal childhood—Mahjarrat are capable of being civilized people…and today, you demonstrated that Mahjarrat are also capable of empathy, and even remorse…not something you'd expect to find in Zaros's most ruthless conquerors…" Jerrod's voice gradually trailed off until he paused, allowing himself a long yawn, followed by a sudden onset of weariness—it had been a long day, and he had expected to head to sleep several hours ago. "We have several more days' travel until we reach the Avarrockan Hills—we'll need to push hard tomorrow," he murmured, his weariness quickly winning the battle. "And besides…all this talk of morals and ethics is exhausting me. I'm going to get some sleep, and I suggest you do the same."

With that, the Cleric gathered his cloak around himself and lay down on his side, facing away from the fire so that its warmth could heat his back, but not hit him full in the face. Within minutes, the sound of light snoring filled the clearing.

But Avis remained awake, deep in thought about what he had done today. The Cleric's insight had helped a lot, but it would take time to make Avis stop feeling like a murderer. The most damning thing about it all was that Avis knew that he would have to do it again in the future. If he indeed was the one who was destined to end the God Wars…it was safe to assume that it would involve a good deal of fighting.

The boy realized that although Jerrod could train him in the use of the elements and the sword…how he coped with the consequences of _using_ those forces against his enemies was something Avis _himself_ would have to learn.

The boy hadn't thought this whole thing could get anymore complicated than it had already been…but today he found out that he had been wrong.

"Stupid Gods with their _stupid_ prophecies…" the boy muttered at the fire.

He got no answer.


	11. Chapter 11: Hidden

Chapter Eleven: Hidden

It took the _Silver Arrow_ a week to reach the island of Ito. This was mostly due to the fact that the man-of-war was sailing against the wind most of the time. Had the wind been _with_ them, the _Arrow_ probably could have made the trip in a little over half that time.

As far as size was concerned, Ito wasn't nearly as large as Oēn, Ryukyu, or any of the other main islands of the Ainu Empire, but it had its advantages.

One characteristic that made Ito ideal for a fortress or a stronghold was the fact that almost all of its coastline comprised of sheer, high cliffs. Nothing would be able to get over those cliffs, unless the invading force already had ropes secured at the top beforehand, which was impossible to do from the sea.

Ito was a crescent-shaped island—roughly seventy miles from its northernmost point to its southernmost, and thirty miles across at its widest point. The western side of the island was the larger coastline—the outside of the crescent—which curved all the way around on both sides to the east.

The two tips of the crescent curved down towards each other, leaving a gap of about half a mile between them. Had they touched, they would have given Ito an almost perfect circular shape. Beyond the tips of the crescent was the Ito Bay, which was surrounded by the inner coast of the island. The inner coast, unlike the outer coast, was not composed of sheer cliffs. Instead, the shores of Ito Harbor were white beaches filled with palm trees.

The jungle extended back for a good distance before eventually turning to a more temperate forest. A small chain of mountain peaks could also be seen in the distance.

Lord Fernando, Praetor of the Centralian Forum, gazed up at the two towering peaks on either side of the Centralian man-of-war as it sailed into the Bay of Ito. They weren't really mountains—they simply looked like peaks from Fernando's sea-level vantage point. They were the tips of the Ito crescent that formed the entrance to the bay.

Seeing as the only way to invade Ito would be to go through the bay, the entrance to the Bay of Ito became the main focus of the island's defenses. As such, there were two heavily-armed forts built atop the very furthest edges of the crescent. They were constructed of stone that was the same color as the cliffs. Large cannons rested on the forts' battlements—cannons that would no doubt be perfectly capable of sending a fleet of ships to the bottom of the sea.

"Well, I have to hand it to your people," Captain Harcourt confessed to the leader of the group of rogue samurai aboard the _Arrow,_ gesturing to the forts above. "I doubt Zamorak himself would be able to get past those cliffs."

"I pray we will never have to find out," Niten replied, drumming his fingers on the wooden rail.

"As do I," Lord Fernando agreed. "But if Centralia falls, I'm afraid your prayers will go unanswered."

There were dozens of fishing vessels out on the bay at this time of day. The _Silver Arrow_ passed by many of them as it sailed towards a village situated on the northern coast of the bay. Niten and the other six samurai on board would holler greetings to the fishermen in Kurigana as the man-of-war slid past.

It took over an hour to reach the village which Niten was directing the _Arrow_ towards. The bay winds really weren't all that strong, as they were largely blocked by the island on nearly all sides. Unless a wind was blowing east right through the entrance, there really wasn't much of a breeze to be had.

Still, the _Silver Arrow_ always had a knack for snatching every scrap of wind from the air it sailed through. Cicero's Wind magic didn't exactly hurt the cause, either.

"This is Nogura," Niten informed his Centralian hosts as they approached the town's docks. "It is our largest fishing village, and therefore best suited to accommodate the needs of your crew. I trust you are remaining?"

"That is their choice," Lord Fernando reminded the rogue samurai. "I, for one, am not leaving until I secure the aid of your people; but Captain Harcourt and his men are not bound by this resolution. They are free to leave whenever they wish."

Harcourt was silent at first. Before, he had been preoccupied with breaking out of Kātayō Harbor and sailing safely through the islands of Ainuido to Ito that he really hadn't considered whether or not he intended to return to Centralia. He certainly hadn't discounted the prospect of returning home...but ever since he had received his assignment from Fleetmaster Straume to escort Lord Fernando to the Sun Emperor's palace, he had been gradually coming to realize just how badly Centralia was going to need an ally in the coming storm.

As he weighed his options, he really had no choice to admit that, if the Ainu didn't join Centralia, there wouldn't _be_ a home to return to for very long. Centralia's best hope lay with the Praetor, on this one. And so, it was with a rather small amount of reluctance that Captain Harcourt decided to remain on Ito, for the time being.

"Very well, Praetor, I'll stay," the Captain said. "My men will stay with me. I just hope you know what you're doing."

"You already know how much we need the Ainu," the Praetor reminded Harcourt. "And with the arsenal of the _Silver Arrow_ on hand, I think we'll all feel a good deal safer."

"Your crew will remain here, in Nogura," Niten said to the Captain. "I assume many of them are fishermen by trade?"

Captain Harcourt nodded. It was very common for fishermen to join the Navy in order to avoid being drafted into one of the legions. Naval warfare wasn't _quite_ as deadly as ground warfare...it came very close, though; but men who lived by the sea would naturally choose to serve on a ship instead of a legion. "Yes, most of them came from fishing families before joining my crew."

"Very good," Niten nodded approvingly. "They may live here on your ship, if they so desire. However, they are also welcome to join the Nogurans on their fishing runs—if they do this, then they will be welcomed to live among our families for the duration of their stay."

"This arrangement is acceptable to the Nogurans?" Captain Harcourt asked, mostly for clarification.

Niten gave a single nod. "It is custom."

"Very well," Harcourt nodded. "I shall have the crew and officers informed immediately."

"Do you have any fighters on your ship?" Niten asked next as the _Silver Arrow_ dropped anchor and tied off its mooring lines to one of Nogura's docks. The samurai frowned, not satisfied with his choice of wording. He tried again. "Any fighters…soldiers who are not sailors?"

Captain Harcourt now understood what the rogue samurai was getting at. "Ah, you mean _marines_."

"_Kaihei-tai,_" Lord Fernando translated for Niten, giving the closest approximation to _marines_ in Kurigana.

"_Hai,_" Niten nodded. "Yes. Marines."

"Uh, we have a complement of twenty-four marines onboard, commanded by Lieutenant Althos," Captain Harcourt said to Niten, answering his earlier question.

"Very good," Niten nodded again. "I will be taking the Praetor inland to meet my lord. Your marines will accompany him."

Captain Harcourt considered this for a brief moment before agreeing. While the sailors would be able to live as fishermen for the duration of the _Silver Arrow's_ stay, the marines were a different story. They were basically footsoldiers who were assigned onto ships—they could sail a vessel if required, but they weren't men of the sea. If they stayed in Nogura, they would probably have to remain on the _Arrow_.

Harcourt hashed out a few last-minute details with Niten and the Praetor as the Ainu villagers finished clearing the dock which the _Silver Arrow_ was moored to. Finally, everything was in order, and all the leaders were in agreement.

"It was a pleasure sailing with you, Captain," Lord Fernando said to Harcourt as the two Centralians clasped forearms in farewell.

"The pleasure was all mine," Harcourt chuckled. "Do try and stay in one piece while we're over here, would you? If you die, I would hate to have to be the one to explain to Admiral Straume why I'm returning to Centralia without you."

After the gangplanks were lowered, Lord Fernando and Niten stepped down onto the docks. The other rogue samurai and the contingent of Centralian marines followed suit.

Captain Harcourt remained onboard and started to explain what was happening to the crew. Lord Fernando did not stick around to hear what he said, though. Niten and his warriors were already striding away from the docks at a brisk pace.

The villagers were all clad in simple clothing made of island cloth. Contrary to popular belief, not all of the Ainu populace spent every minute of every hour in the robes their nobles were fond of. They dressed almost similar to the way Menaphite townspeople would dress—minus the head coverings.

As he swung himself into the saddle of the horse presented to him by one of Niten's samurai and followed the Ainu warriors out of Nogura and into the jungle, he began to realize how little he really knew of the Ainu people.

When he had visited Ainuido in the past alongside King Alton—Osman's father and predecessor—he had only seen Kātayō City and parts of the surrounding area. He had never been to any of the other main islands, let alone the smaller, more isolated ones. He hadn't known that Ito had even _existed_ until several days ago.

Their governmental structure was very different than that of Centralia. Each village had a council of elders and a village headman—all of whom reported to the _daimyo_ who ruled over individual provinces. All local samurai also reported to their daimyo, similar to how a Centralian knight would answer to a provincial proconsul. All of the daimyos, in turn, answered to the Shogun, who was the commander of the entire Ainu military and the second-most powerful individual in the empire, behind the Sun Emperor himself.

This deviated from Centralia in that the Centralian Proconsuls would not answer directly to the Warmaster—they answer directly to the Forum, and ultimately the King. Their knights and the legions stationed in their respective provinces, however, could be commandeered by the Warmaster in times of War...like right now. In Ainuido, the Shogun—their equivalent of a Warmaster—controlled everything shy of the Sun Emperor himself.

Akai-Hanako, the Marshal of Ainuido, was currently serving as the military commander since the Shogun's recent death. The daimyos answered to him, now.

What Fernando found interesting about the Ainu was that the vast majority of their government was based on bloodline. Daimyos, for example, were born into their position as a provincial overlord. The same went with most of the other positions, with the exception of the Marshal. This was in stark contrast to Centralia, where positions like the provincial proconsuls, royal consuls, city officials, or even Warmaster were not awarded by birth or bloodline—they were government-appointed.

Not to say that there weren't nobles in Centralia—there were plenty of nobles in Fernando's homeland who had a say of what happened in the Forum. Centralia was different, but in many ways it was also the same.

The odd mix of samurai and Centralian marines had been moving through the wilderness for a good five or six hours without rest before the thick, muggy jungle thinned out into a more temperate forest. The snow-capped peaks of the mountains now loomed ever closer, and it seemed like the party was heading towards one of them.

As the day began to move on into the afternoon, the rogue samurai led the Centralians up onto the lower slopes of the nearest mountain. The forest thinned out even further as it gave way to wide, rolling foothills.

"You mind telling me where exactly we're going?" the Lieutenant Althos finally asked, breaking the heavy silence which had fallen over the group.

Niten gave the marine officer a sidelong glance, rubbing a spot of grime off his maroon samurai helm. He then pointed to the mountain looming over the forest in front of them. It was a massive mountain—easily twice as large as most of the other peaks surrounding it. The party had been steadily winding their way towards it all day.

"_Kakusa re ta,_" Niten answered.

"Pardon?"

"It means _hidden,_" Lord Fernando translated. "Not very imaginative, if you ask me…"

"It is the centre of our rebellion," Niten explained. "You should be honored; very few who are not an active member of our cause have ever seen Kakusa re ta...let alone a _gaijin_—a foreigner," the samurai then gave an amused chuckle, adding, "Let alone a _group_ of _gaijin_."

"These are strange times, indeed," Lord Fernando agreed. "If this place is such a closely-guarded secret, _why,_ then, are you bringing me and Althos's men there?"

"Because they need us, obviously," Althos shrugged. "If they had no need of us, your friend there never would have even freed you from the palace."

"So then the question is: what do you need us _for?_" Lord Fernando posed the question to the leader of the group of rogue samurai.

"You should give this man a higher rank," Niten advised the Praetor, gesturing to Althos with his head. "He has the perception for it."

"That doesn't answer his question."

"All will be answered in Kukasa re ta," Niten assured the Praetor, ending the conversation by refusing to speak anymore on that matter.

Niten stopped everyone to set up camp for the night about an hour later, just as the party reached the base of a ridgeline that ran a good ways up the slopes of the mountain which he had been leading everyone onto. The men started a small cooking fire and ate a light dinner of flat bread and dried strips of meat—a true meal of the trail.

After a semi-restful sleep, Lord Fernando woke up to the chirruping of birds and crickets. Niten had everyone awake and breaking down camp before dawn. By the time the light of the sun became visible in the east, breakfast had already been eaten and camp broken.

By sunrise, the men were back on the trail, hiking their way up the ridgeline of the mountain. Niten called the mountain _Yamakajida,_ which roughly translated in Commonspeak to 'Fire on a Mountain'. Fernando later learned that it was an extinct volcano, though it had been very much active in the somewhat-distant past. Memories of sulfur and lava still ran deep among the Itoans.

By afternoon, the Ainu and Centralians had reached the top of the mountain. It was then that Fernando learned that Mount Yamakajida was a volcano—upon reaching the very top of the mountain, the men did not arrive at a summit; they arrived at the lip of a vast caldera filled with trees, grass, fields, and even a lake.

Built in the center of this crater was a small town—larger than your average village, but by no means a city. The small figures of men and women could be seen going about their daily chores from the lip of the crater.

As the Ainu samurai and their Centralian guests made their way down to the town below, Fernando could see why this place's name meant _hidden_. The ridge that led up to the top of the mountain would have been difficult to find and ascend unless one already knew where they were going. And now that the Ainu rebellion seemed to be using this crater as its stronghold, they would no doubt discourage any curious Itoans from even coming near Mount Yamakajida.

The caldera was a little less than four miles in diameter— though Fernando was no expert on volcanoes, he knew that for a fire mountain to have such a large crater, it must have had a proportionately violent eruption sometime in the past. None of which really mattered either which way, though; it was perfect for the needs of a small army—a nigh impenetrable mountain fortress located on a nigh-impenetrable island. The rebels had chosen their location well.

There were a large number of samurai living in Kakusa re ta, and an even larger number of common Ainu warriors—soldiers who had joined the cause. As Niten led his samurai and the Centralians through the small town, the samurai and warriors whom they passed by gave respectful bows to the rogue samurai leader. It would seem that Niten was a little bit more important than he had previously let on.

Niten stopped in front of a small, wooden temple to Tumeken—the Sun God. He dismissed the other rogue samurai under his command—the men who had helped him free Fernando from Kātayō. He then directed Lieutenant Althos to take his men to the western outskirts of the village, where they would be allowed to set up camp.

"Though the presence of your marines is welcomed," Niten explained to Fernando after the other Centralians departed, "they have no place in our temple to the Sun God. _You_ are allowed to enter only through invitation."

"Invitation from whom?"

"From my lord," Niten turned towards the temple, pushing aside the hanging curtain that obscured what lay beyond the entrance. "Enter, Praetor of Centralia."

Lord Fernando obliged and ducked inside. The interior of the Temple of Tumeken was simple and unadorned. It was a small space with a carving of Tumeken's symbol and visage—made of solid gold—at the very front, with two bronze braziers of fire burning on either side of the altar.

Kneeling in front of the image of Tumeken was a man clad in simple samurai armor. The armor was maroon, like Niten's, though it had trimmings of amber. The man himself was a middle-aged man, also like Niten. However, he seemed to be a few years older. He had a shaven head, a braided black beard that hung down to his chest, and deep brown, almond-shaped eyes. His face bore a wide assortment of scars, earned both in and out of battle.

Sensing the arrival of another, the man kneeling in front of the altar rose to his feet. He turned round to face the Praetor, giving a slight, but respectful bow of the head. Lord Fernando reciprocated the gesture.

"I have been expecting you, Fernando, son of Iapetus, Praetor of Centralia," the Ainu man gave a faint grin, eyeing up the Praetor as he spoke, forming his own judgments based on Fernando's appearance. "You bear the title of a politician, but the stance of a soldier," the Ainu remarked.

"I served as a centurion in the III Legion, once upon a time," Lord Fernando said to the Ainu warrior. "May I ask how you know my identity?"

"I am the one who ordered Niten over there to keep you out of the Emperor's hands," the Ainu explained. "Your Centralian brethren—not to mention _you_ yourself—are much more likely to help me if you are alive."

The Praetor's brow furrowed in a deep frown. "I can only assume that you are the leader of this rebellion that I have been hearing so much about. But who _are_ you? No common warrior, or even an Ainu noble, could possibly know of my visit to the Sun Emperor—it was a closely-guarded secret."

The Ainu warrior's expression did not change. "My name has grown to be much less important than my title, so you may simply refer to me as Shogun."

"_You're_ the Shogun?" Lord Fernando's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "That's impossible; everyone said you were dead."

The Ainu warrior's faint smile vanished and his expression grew solemn. "I am considered dead by many former colleagues and friends, it's true…" the Shogun turned his gaze back upwards, looking back at the Praetor. That ghost of a smile returned to his face. "…for now. Your men will be the key to our success, so let us talk."


	12. Chapter 12: Old Memories

Chapter Twelve: Old Memories

The tendril of water snaked up from the surface of the pond and into the air, hanging awkwardly like a snake draped over a branch. It wasn't stationary, though—the water was constantly flowing, the tendril constantly moving. After a few seconds, it started to disintegrate, drops of water falling away.

"Steady…" Jerrod advised, crouching down next to his pupil. "What have I told you about Water?"

"It is not my servant," Avis replied.

"So stop treating it like one," the Cleric finished. "You can move it just fine…but you need to start feeling the push and the pull of it. Water is constantly moving—trying to hold it stationary will always end-"

"-will always end in failure," Avis finished in unison with his mentor. "I _know_."

"Well, you definitely heard me, but you obviously didn't _listen,_" Jerrod retorted. "Stop asserting yourself over the Water and bring yourself down to its level."

Avis closed his eyes for a couple seconds, then opened them again and immediately went to work with the tendril of water, compressing it into a solid sphere—the first shape he had learned with Water.

"Churn the center and the outside in opposite directions," Jerrod said.

Avis took a deep breath and started manipulating the Water as requested, making smooth gestures with his hands. Gradually, the ball of water mimicked Avis's gestures and the surface began to churn to the left. Jerrod peered closely at the sphere and saw that, as he had requested, the core of the sphere was rotating in the opposite direction.

"Nicely done," Jerrod nodded approvingly. "Usually takes novitiates months to perform a move as simple as that. But enough with these spheres; give me a ring."

The boy concentrated once more, his gaze never leaving the ball of water. The ball itself started to flatten and stretch out until a hole appeared in the very center. Avis had to keep it spinning so that it kept its shape and cohesion.

The Cleric proceeded to have the boy stretch, twist, and bend the Water into dozens of different shapes and patterns. He had the boy stretch it out and stream it over his head, between his legs, or around his waist.

Next, Avis and Jerrod streamed a large glob of water around each other in a figure eight while Jerrod quizzed Avis on his swordsmanship. This went on for a short while, before Jerrod called a break for lunch.

"Another morning put to good use," Jerrod declared, actually sounding satisfied for once. "You are making good progress."

"Good enough to take the afternoon off?" Avis asked hopefully. He was rewarded with a fit of deep laughter on Jerrod's end. The boy's shoulders drooped a little bit, but he honestly wasn't surprised. It had been worth a try, but Avis had never actually considered the possibility that Jerrod would agree.

"You're progressing many times faster than a normal novitiate, but that doesn't mean squat when you consider our timetable," Jerrod replied. "You know that I will not rush your training for the sake of saving time—shoddy training will kill you faster than any nightmare Zamorak could ever conjure up. But I will not _slow_ your training, either. A world rests on our shoulders, boy."

After a fast meal of nuts, biscuits, and honey, Jerrod and Avis were back at it. Jerrod dueled Avis twice using just Wind. They then dueled using just Water. After that, they fought with both elements, combining the properties of the two in order to better suit their needs.

Avis was victorious in one of the Wind duels, but he lost every other time. He wasn't crushed, though…some of his mock-fights with Jerrod were pretty close calls. The Cleric noticed this as well. The boy had managed to score a few hits on him, forcing the Cleric to treat Avis as a serious foe, rather than a limited apprentice.

After they finished, they took a quick rest. It was only a quick one, though. By the time the mid-afternoon started bleeding into late afternoon, Jerrod drilled Avis with the blade.

"It's soon going to have to be your responsibility to continue practicing with Wind and Water," the Cleric said to his pupil as he polished his gladius, finished with the sparring bout. "When we begin to train with Earth and Fire, I will not be able to devote enough time to the other elements as I would like."

Avis gave a single nod, not wanting to think that far ahead.

"In the meantime, though…it's time you learned another use for Water," the Cleric gestured for the boy to come over to him, which he did. The Cleric then grasped Avis's arm and drew the edge of his gladius across it in a sharp line.

Avis instantly tried to recoil, but Jerrod held him fast. "What was that for?" he shouted, trying again to pull back his arm, which was starting to drip with blood, but Jerrod still didn't let go.

"There is life energy present in your body, boy," Jerrod explained, standing up and leading Avis to the bank of the creek. "But you know this, already. I've already taught you about the Anima Mundi. What you _don't_ know, however, is that your life energy isn't simply bottled up inside of you; it _flows_ through you—much like the blood in your veins."

As he spoke, the Cleric began streaming a small amount of water up from the creek's surface with his free hand, calling it forth with gentle, graceful gestures. "When your body is wounded, the flow of the Anima Mundi is disrupted. Gradually, the energy paths restore themselves, which allows the wounds to heal. However, if you use Water as a catalyst…" the Cleric cupped the Water around Avis's injured arm. It began to glow brightly, as if someone were holding a flame under it. "…you can reconnect the broken pathways manually. That glow is your life energy in one of its purest forms, flowing through this water. And once have finished, _voilà,_" the Cleric let go of Avis's arm, allowing the luminescent water to splash back down to the ground, its glow vanishing as it left his arm.

When it fell away, Avis saw that the laceration on his arm was completely healed. There wasn't even a blemish on the skin where the gladius had sliced. Avis knew that Jerrod was able to heal with Water—he had once broken the boy's jaw during a sparring session, and had used Water to reset it. This, however, was the first time he had actually explained what exactly he was doing as he implemented healing.

"Do you want me to try?" Avis asked.

"Not today, no," Jerrod shook his head. "But when you practice entering the Ondr, I want you to start trying to feel the energy paths within yourself. If you ever want to become halfway decent at healing, you must familiarize yourself with your own body."

Avis gave another sigh. This would be simply one more thing he had to start practicing. He already had Wind and Water to worry about, as well as his swordsmanship and meditation…now he could add healing to the list. And he still had another two elements to go…

The Cleric, after cleaning the blade of his gladius, sheathed it and decided it was time to start making up dinner. While Avis prepared a fire, Jerrod stalked off into the woods to find a meal.

The boy stared at the pile of kindling and tinder. Not for the first time, he wished he was able to invoke Fire; that would save him the trouble of having to use a tinderbox. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, holding his hands over the firewood and concentrating on producing heat, a flame, a spark; _anything_.

What he got was a big handful of _nothing_. It was no use trying to invoke Fire; Avis simply did not know how. The power of Fire was still locked away in his subconscious…down in the animalistic, Mahjarrat part of his mind. He would have to be Awakened at the Fire Temple…and Jerrod had said that it was located in the far north of the Menaphite Desert, which was a good distance away. And even before that, he would be mastering Water while beginning to train with Earth, as the Earth Temple was much closer.

Avis gave a small sigh and took out the tinderbox, lighting the fire the old-fashioned way.

Jerrod returned half an hour later, bearing a brace of three dead rabbits. He sat down by the fire, untying the rabbits and laying them flat on one of his pot lids. He then proceeded to skin them and prepare them for stewing.

"How did you kill them?" Avis asked, glancing uncertainly at the rabbits. He saw blood leaking down from the rabbits' heads, but also knew that Jerrod had no bows or slings to hunt with.

"Pebbles," Jerrod replied, tossing the entrails of the first rabbit into a nearby rock before getting to work on the second.

"Pebbles?" Avis's eyebrows rose a fraction.

"Pebbles," the Cleric repeated himself. He finished prepping the second rabbit and noticed Avis still looking at him funny. He gave a quiet sigh and stood up, stomping the ground with his left foot. At the Cleric's behest, a single pebble rose into the air. Jerrod then flicked his wrist, and the pebble rocketed forward and punched a good way into the trunk of a nearby oak.

Avis could easily see how a pebble, moving at such a speed, could kill those rabbits. It occurred to him later that something like that pebble could even kill a man…it would be the ultimate silent weapon. If a mage ever wanted to carry out an assassination or even a common murder…all it would take was a pebble.

"Kind of frightening how easy magic can make things, isn't it?" Jerrod asked as he returned his attention to the final rabbit, somehow sensing what his pupil was thinking.

"Don't masters usually discourage using magic like that?" the boy asked.

"Uh…yeah," Jerrod nodded, stopping himself from shrugging reflexively. When he was younger, he had always hated it when the stuffy, uptight masters had tried preaching for him to not use magic to make challenging tasks become easy.

Well, _they_ were never placed in charge of training a Mahjarrat child by Saradomin Himself to prevent Zamorak from deep-frying the entire world, so they were welcome to blow it out their asses.

"I'll admit, using magic to make every single challenge moot is not the right thing to do," Jerrod conceded. "Normally, I wouldn't go out and hunt with magic—there's a certain pride in hunting the traditional way—but, considering the circumstances… You're supposed to end this damned war, but you can't exactly do that if you starve to death out here. So if I want to use magic to keep us from starving out in this forest, then damn it all, I'm going to do it."

"Okay, okay…" Avis held up his hands in surrender. "Just asking…"

Jerrod streamed some water from the nearby creek into his pot. He then stomped his foot onto the ground once more. He held his hands low, clenched them into fists, then brought them back up, as if he were lifting a heavy weight.

Avis nearly yelped in surprise when two small, thin columns of rock suddenly burst out of the ground on opposite sides of the fire, rising two or so feet into the air before stopping. Though he really shouldn't have been startled, he didn't see Jerrod invoke Earth very often, so it had come as a surprise.

The Cleric found a thick bough of wood and placed it over his two columns of rock. He then hung the pot of water over the flames and sat back, waiting for it to simmer. As the sun sank below the western horizon and the crickets began their session of evening chirping, Avis decided to break the silence that had fallen over the camp.

"Where did you grow up?"

The question was so sudden and out of the blue, for a split-second Jerrod wondered if he had simply imagined it. Then the Cleric glanced over at the Avis, and dispelled that ridiculous notion. "And why, pray tell, do you want to know that?"

Avis shrugged. "Curious."

"I see I haven't quite stamped that out of you, yet…" when the Cleric glanced back over at Avis, the boy was still looking at him, expecting an answer. Jerrod knew that he didn't _have_ to answer. He could just as easily have continued to dodge and evade the answer, or he could even outright ignore the boy.

However, he found himself in a somewhat conversational mood, at the moment. What would it heard to indulge the boy a little?

"I was born in Harrow's Stead, a border town in the north Far Reaches—the westernmost region of Centralia…" he noticed the boy frowning as he spoke and rolled his eyes even as he finished that last sentence. "What is the problem, now? Am I not telling this story to your expectations?"

"No, no," Avis shook his head quickly. "It's just that…well…I can't really picture you as a kid."

Jerrod arched a tentative eyebrow at that. "And why is that? Do you think I came out of the womb like this?"

"Well…_no,_" the boy sighed, knowing he wouldn't win this round of verbal jousting.

"I was one good-looking child, thank you very much," the Cleric huffed as he cut up the rabbit meat and dumped it into the pot of water, stirring it gently by manipulating the water with slow, circular hand motions. He had already dropped in some of the bones of the rabbits to boost the flavor of the water, which was quickly becoming broth.

"You ever go back and visit your home?" Avis asked next. He really didn't know why he was suddenly asking so much about the Cleric's home…maybe because his _own_ home had been burned down and destroyed by Zamorak's armies, and he just wanted to see someone else reminisce about home…he didn't know.

"That would be difficult," Jerrod said as he cut up one of the carrots he had bought in the market at Aeriose and kept preserved in a block of ice, sliding the sliced vegetable into the stew and sprinkling in some seasoning.

"Why?"

"Probably because it doesn't exist anymore," the Cleric replied. "Harrow's Stead was burned down when I was little by a Mahjarrat named Hazeel. Only a dozen of us survived, and I just so happened to be one of them."

For once, Avis found himself without anything to say. He started to apologize, but Jerrod waved him off. "Don't apologize, boy; you didn't know," the Cleric said to the ten-year-old—or was he eleven, now? Jerrod resolved to ask when he got a chance. "If anything, you are one of the few who can truly sympathize…you had to watch Ullek burn. You have lost your home, too."

Avis's expression darkened, becoming more forlorn as memories of his home flashed through his mind. His brutal training under Jerrod had occupied not only his time, but also all of his thoughts. The loss of Ullek had traumatized him deeply, but he had simply had no time to dwell on it. Now that the Cleric had suddenly reminded him of those events…

"How do you do it?" the boy asked his teacher. "How do you ignore those feelings? Every time…every time I even _think_ about home, I…I…" Avis's broke off, closing his eyes and rubbing the curve of his nose wearily. His eyes had begun to tear up, but he refused to break down and look weak in front of his mentor.

"It happened over fifty years ago, Avinius," the Cleric reminded his pupil, surprising the boy by using his real, full name. "Pain gets duller over time. Still…the loss of home and family is a loss like no other…"

"But how were you able to get through it all? All I want to do is kill the damned-"

"_Oi!_" Jerrod aimed a cuff at Avis's ears, but the boy ducked just in time. "No bloody swearing out of you, boy! One foul mouth here is enough."

Avis refused to be deterred. "You're still not answering my question."

Jerrod's expression remained neutral. "You're young, boy. Some things in my life are…well, you're better off not hearing about some of them."

"I'm not a whelp, anymore!" Avis insisted, his voice growing higher and firmer with frustration. "I am a Mahjarrat. The Gods say that I will bring about the end of the wars; do you really think my future is gonna be a happy one? Why, only a few days ago, I killed those men who attacked us…I have blood on my hands, now. Whatever you did, master…it can't be any worse than anything that's happened to me. How'd you cope with losing your home?"

"Vengeance," the Cleric sighed, finally. "I took vengeance on Hazeel; the one who killed my family. It is not always the right thing to do…and it was not what I was taught by the monks who raised me…but that is what I did nonetheless. And it felt good."

"You killed a Mahjarrat?" Avis exclaimed.

Jerrod was silent for a minute or so. Before he could speak, the stew started to bubble loudly. Normally it would have taken much longer for it to cook, but Jerrod had been making the fire burn hotter than normal. He took out two wooden bowls and started spooning the stew into each one.

"Perhaps I'll tell you that story later," the Cleric mused, not finding himself in the mood to go sifting through those dark, bloody memories at the moment. "Not tonight, though. This rabbit stew has put me in too good of a mood."

Avis didn't press the Cleric. He had been with Jerrod long enough to know that the Cleric wouldn't talk about his past again until he found himself in the mood. Tonight, that mood had just ended.

"Cheer up, boy," Jerrod mimed a friendly punch to Avis's shoulder. A ball of super-compressed wind struck the boy's shoulder as he did this, simulating an actual punch, which Jerrod was too lazy to get up and deliver himself. "You know that Zamorak had Ullek destroyed because he knew you were there. Well, he failed…so keep training hard and fulfill that thrice-damned prophecy by ending this war. If you end this conflict, as is foretold, you will ensure that Ullek and her citizens did not die in vain."

"Did anyone ever wonder what would happen if I…you know…_fail?_" the boy asked. "This whole thing is the result of a prophecy that we have no way of proving; it isn't written in stone…"

"Well, yeah, it kind of _is_…" Jerrod chuckled. "It was found inscribed on the Stone of Jas, which is the energy source of all Magicks. Maybe you're right after all, and the whole thing is just a load of bollocks…_you,_ however, still have the power to prove yourself wrong. I am confident that, one way or another, you _will_ find yourself in a position to end the war…but for now, just shut up and eat your rabbit stew."


	13. Chapter 13: Kakusa re ta

Chapter Thirteen: Kakusa re ta

"Yes...let us talk," Lord Fernando agreed. The Praetor was still in a mild state of surprise at the Ainu Shogun actually being alive, but he pushed past those emotions and got down to the matter at hand. Centralia needed the help of the Ainu, and it occurred to the Praetor that the Shogun would be his best bet for completing this objective.

Best not to be disrespectful to him. Though Fernando could also sense that the Shogun needed _him_ as well…for what, exactly, the Praetor did not know. But definitely for something. He supposed he was about to find out what.

"I am sure you have many questions," the Shogun said, his Commonspeak distorted by his accent, but still more easily understood than many of his fellow Ainu. "I will endeavor to answer as many of them as I can. Will you walk with me?"

The Shogun led the way out of the temple, beckoning for the Praetor to follow him. Niten followed as well, but remained further back. As the Shogun's chief lieutenant and advisor, he accompanied the Ainu military leader almost everywhere, but he had also mastered the skill of becoming invisible in a conversation. The Praetor would easily forget the samurai was there until he looked back and actually saw him.

"Kakusa re ta..." Lord Fernando murmured as he looked all around, peering pas the rolling fields and into the woods beyond. A flock of gulls crossed by overhead and settled into the canopies of those trees. The caldera that the town was situated in wasn't huge, but it was large enough to suit the needs of a staging ground, which is what Fernando had assumed this place to be.

There was a small town built in the center of the caldera. The Shogun showed Fernando around the place, giving a quick tour of the facilities. Lieutenant Althos and his marines were already getting situated—setting up tents and campfires outside the village. A few of the veteran marines had even opted to practice their swordsmanship against several of the samurai warriors who lived in the town.

"This is where the rebellion I've been hearing so much about is centered, yes?" Lord Fernando asked as the Shogun took him onto a path that led away from the village and into the fields beyond, where individual samurai and groups of common Ainu soldiers could be seen drilling or meditating.

"We are _not_ a rebellion," the Shogun corrected. "We would never betray our Emperor."

Again, the Praetor did not want to disrespect the Shogun, but this last remark was not one that he could simply ignore. "How would you not classify yourselves as rebels? You _are_ fighting against the Sun Emperor's loyal forces. We _killed_ his men when Niten freed me from the palace."

"Casualties borne of necessity," Niten sighed. His voice was layered with a small measure of sadness, but not regret. "They died well."

"My lieutenant is correct," the Shogun agreed. "What separates the warriors who follow me from those who remain at the Sun Emperor's side is not a division of opinion, but a limitation of perception. I do not think I need to explain to you, of all people, but I'm sure you have noticed that the Sun Emperor seemed…" the Shogun frowned, searching for an appropriate word in Commonspeak to convey his intent. Unable to find one, he simply spoke the last word in Kurigana, which Fernando understood just as well. "_Yogoreta_."

"Abnormal," Lord Fernando translated. "Tainted."

"Tainted, yes," the Shogun nodded. "His mind has been overthrown by the Dark One."

"I thought as much," Lord Fernando murmured. "Zamorak is brutal and evil, but he is a cunning foe… Even now, he sows chaos and havoc in your lands. You Ainu are killing each other right now when you should be mobilizing to assist your allies."

The Shogun turned off the path and started walking through a patch of woods, closing his eyes frequently and savoring the smell of fresh pine. The trickle of a flowing creek filled what otherwise would have been a complete absence of sound.

"This did not happen overnight," the Shogun went on after a few minutes of silence. "It all started several years ago, when he began to have the dreams…ever since then, the Emperor has become more and more…_tainted_. Taken over. Stolen. The Dark One's hold over him is very strong, now. After bringing attention to this blasphemy, a full winter ago, I was exiled from this empire."

"It would appear that you did not listen," the Praetor grinned.

"If I desert this place, I desert my Emperor," the Shogun declared. "Even on pain of death, that is something I cannot do."

"I've been in Kātayō," Lord Fernando said to the older Ainu military commander. "I've seen the layout of the city and the palace…your men could easily take the capital if you launched a two-pronged ground and sea assault. Why have you not done this, already? I'm sure your shamans could have neutralized Zamorak's mental hold over-"

"_No,_" the Shogun stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. He took a deep breath and said, more calmly, "No. We do not fight against the Sun Emperor; we fight to free him…but you must understand; we will not, we _cannot_ attack the Emperor. He is a living god, a part of the line of Sun Emperors descended directly from Izanagi the Sun God; you know him by the name of Tumeken. To raise a hand _against_ him…it cannot be done."

"But…" Lord Fernando frowned again, the facts not quite adding up for him. "How can you justify fighting to free the Sun Emperor by leading a breakaway military force in battle against soldiers still loyal to him…but you cannot justify attacking the palace to throw off Zamorak's mindlock? Are they not the same thing?"

"To me, and to those here who have put their faith in me, they are not. And that is, putting it quite simply, the way it is," the Shogun replied flatly, turning back forward and resuming his walk. "Another thing you must understand about myself and those who I have the great honor to command here is that we have not formally faced the loyalist army in battle, yet."

That surprised the Praetor. "Is that so?" Fernando asked. "From what I've been hearing, your force has really been causing trouble, lately."

"Not in battle, no," Niten said from behind, overhearing the turn in the conversation. "We raid imperial supply ships on occasion to keep us fed and equipped. The Itoans keep us from starving, but we do our best to help ourselves; we cannot be the Ainu people's salvation and burden at the same time. We also capture Imperial Navy vessels which stray too close to Ito; in all of these cases, the crews of those vessels ended up joining my cause."

"We have also attacked and…discouraged the loyalists from setting up outposts on any of the islands near this one," the Shogun continued. "My point is that we have yet to unleash our full strength. And when we do, it will only be at the right time…with your help. Or rather, your mage's help."

"Cicero?" Lord Fernando arched an eyebrow. "What do you need with him?"

Before the Ainu warleader answered the Praetor's last question, the three men emerged into a clearing situated on top of a small hill. The ground was covered with spongy moss and clovers. A fallen tree was decomposing on one side of the clearing. The edges of the mossy clearing were rimmed with violets, dandelions, lilacs, and a few flowers native to Ainuido that Fernando wasn't familiar with.

In the center of the clearing was a small willow tree. The Shogun wandered towards it, pushing aside some of the green strands that hung down to the ground and walking under the tree's arching branches. "This is my favorite meditating spot," the Shogun smiled, placing a gentle hand on the trunk of the willow tree. "I have reached the Ondr many times under its shade."

Niten took a deep breath through his nose, releasing it through his mouth. He, too, seemed to feel some sort of connection to this place. Fernando did not attempt to understand their deep connection to nature and their love of meditation; they were nothing like Centralians. Instead, he waited patiently for the Shogun to get back to the matter at hand.

"There are many ways to fight an enemy," the Shogun said to Fernando, his hand still on the willow tree. "Some adopt an offensive strategy, hoping to crush an enemy under the weight or speed of their strikes. Others adopt a defensive strategy; turning all of the enemy's attacks against the opponent. But we have adopted a different strategy."

Fernando remained silent, now even more interested in what the Shogun had to say.

"We wait," Niten stated.

"_Hai,_" the Shogun nodded. "Yes. We wait. We fight only to preserve ourselves, but otherwise we _wait_. We wait for the right time…and when the right time comes, we strike," he brought his fist down into his other hand. "And we strike hard."

"Like an ocean snake," the Praetor suggested.

"Like an ocean snake, _hai,_" Niten echoed in the affirmative.

The Shogun leaned back against the willow and fell silent once more. Lord Fernando wasn't sure if he was meditating or simply taking a break to listen to the creatures of the woods. Either way, the Praetor once again decided to remain patient and not interrupt. Niten stood still as a statue off to the side.

After a few minutes, Lord Fernando began to listen, too. Though he knew he would never hear it and interpret it at the same depth and level as the two Ainu warriors with him, the Praetor found the sounds of the woods to be somewhat calming. Peaceful, in a way.

After listening to the rhythmic chirruping of a nearby bird for that quiet handful of minutes, the Shogun opened his eyes, got back up to his feet, and stepped away from the willow. "You are right, _Gin-Shita_," he said, using the Kurigana name that Niten's samurai had started calling Lord Fernando during their time on the _Silver Arrow_. The Praetor had yet to get a translation for it. "We could have easily taken the capital long ago, but we could not have attacked the Sun Emperor. Now do you see why we need the help of _gaijin,_ of foreigners? To free the Sun Emperor requires attacking him directly, which we cannot do…but you—and more importantly, your mage—_can_."

"So assisting us in attacking the Emperor is acceptable by your standards?" Lord Fernando frowned. The Praetor knew that he would never understand the Ainu samurai and their ironclad, ramrod-straight senses of honor, their unwillingness to bend the rules…

"_Gin-Shita_, Praetor," the Shogun sighed, finally seeming to tire of the Centralian politician's needling of the mindset of his people, "Our belief that helping _foreigners_ to purge the Emperor's mind is not the same thing as actually _attacking_ him; this is the one thing that allows me and my followers to fight at all. If you want the Ainu to help you in your war, you would do well to stop trying to pick holes in our logic."

Lord Fernando closed his mouth abruptly, biting back a harsh retort. He was quick to see the Shogun's logic as well as his own folly, and even quicker to put a stop to it.

"Very well," the Preator ceded to the Shogun's argument. "Enough on the matter of your loyalties, then. Correct me if I am wrong, now; you are going to attack your capital, but leave storming the palace and freeing the Emperor to _my_ men? The marines are good soldiers, and they'll do what needs to be done, but I would rather not have them go on a suicide mission."

"You are right, but only to a point," the Shogun pointed out before pausing to shake his head momentarily. He couldn't understand the Centralians and their death grips on their own lives. He believed it to be a great honor to die in battle serving his lord. He who values his life dies a dog's death; why couldn't the light-skinned, round-eyed _gaijin_ understand that?

"My men will be alongside your men the whole time," the Shogun explained. "We shall take the palace together. The only task which your warriors must undertake alone is subduing the Emperor himself. Once your mage gets a mental hold on the Emperor, our own shamans will be able to bolster him. We will be with your men every step of the way."

Lord Fernando was silent for several minutes. He examined one of the willow tree's leafy strands, twirling it around his fingers. Finally, he let the strands fall, turning back to face the Ainu leader and his subordinate. "I have it on your honor and the honor of the empire which you serve that you will aid Centralia if I agree to this?"

The Shogun nodded. "When our Emperor's mind is healed, Zamorak's hordes shall know what it is like to feel the cold bites of the gladius and the katana at the same time."

"I do hope you know what you are doing, Shogun," Lord Fernando sighed. He then straightened up, and extended a hand. "When you march on the Emperor's palace, my men shall march with you."

A corner of the Shogun's mouth curved upwards in a faint grin, but he said nothing. Though protocol usually called for a bow, he decided to adopt the Centralian form of agreement for this occasion. Wordlessly, he grasped the Centralian Praetor's hand and shook it.

* * *

_**Author's Note**_

_If anyone is still actually reading this, I know it's been a couple of months since my last update. I've been on a writing splurge with my Halo story, lately (86 chapters and counting) and I just haven't had the drive to continue this one. A ton of people read my Halo story, but not many read this one, so I'm biased towards Halo at the moment. But the drive is starting to come back. Once my Halo story is finished, I'll be able to start writing this one full time._

_But for now, enjoy!_

_-TheAmateur_


	14. Chapter 14: Cat and Mouse

Chapter Fourteen: Cat and Mouse

Bandit's Hollow.

Such a simple, almost unimaginative name…and yet, as Enakhra looked down upon the ramshackle, pathetic excuse for a town sandwiched between two ridges of the southern Avarrockan Hills, she wouldn't have named it anything else.

True to its name, this sorry collection of hovels and shacks was home to some of the grimiest, foulest, brutish criminals in the entire eastern half of Centralia. Smoke was constantly rising from the town—either from chimneys, from kitchens, from fires burning in the streets, or from burning buildings.

Men staggered through every street, drunk out of their minds. They curled up and slept on the dirt streets, hung out of windows, dangled from lamp posts and poles, slumbered with pigs… And the place _smelled,_ too. There probably weren't any baths, here.

"_Humans_…" Enakhra hissed with distaste, gazing down at Bandit's Hollow through narrowed eyes.

As much as she would love to burn Bandit's Hollow to the ground and bring a merciful end to its existence, she was here on business. Though she loathed to admit it, she was here to find a human. A man. A man who, if the rumors she had heard in Aeriose City were true, potentially held valuable information that could help her mission.

The female Mahjarrat stepped into the shadow of a nearby tree and melted away into darkness. Several hundred meters away, right at the edge of town, the hooded woman in the red cloak reemerged from the shadows of another tree at precisely the same time.

Enakhra suppressed a shudder, gathering her cloak about her. Shadow travel was something she was particularly good at, but she had never liked it. It always made her a little nauseous. She would take honest teleportation over shadow travel any day of the week. Teleportation took more energy, however, whereas shadow travel was pretty much akin to stepping through a doorway, so Enakhra used shadow travel when she needed to traverse shorter distances.

Only one man saw her emerge from the shadow of a tree, but he was so drunk that he forgot about it three seconds later. He giggled, leaning against the wall, mumbling out an old drinking tune. When the hooded woman in the red cloak brushed past him, he was none the wiser.

There were women in Bandit's Hollow, as well. Most of them were prostitutes, or they worked in the town's many pubs as objects of pleasure. The point is that none of the women here were really…respectable.

And so, when the stunningly beautiful woman in the cloak came gliding down the main street in Bandit's Hollow, the brigands of the city assumed her to be little more than a bar wench. Certainly not a respectable woman…and certainly not an ageless member of the most powerful and dangerous race in all of Gielinor, save the Gods themselves.

The sober men gave her a wide berth. Though none of them could really figure out why, their instincts told them to stay away. And so, almost subconsciously, they steered themselves away into the side alleys and streets as Enakhra passed them by.

That was wise of them.

But the instincts of the men who were mildly intoxicated…well, they weren't nearly as sharp. One man hooted catcalls and made her the object of a sexual innuendo. To be honest, Enakhra actually found it to be rather amusing.

She allowed herself a small smile as she incinerated the man from the inside out.

After that, even the drunkards started to avoid her. Just as well—the Mahjarrat was in no mood for further distractions. It was bad enough for her to set foot in such a filthy place to find a man; she did not want to have to remain here a moment longer than she had to.

The root of her distaste stemmed from the fact that she considered humans to be worthless. But she had to admit that she required their assistance to complete her mission, and this irked her to no end.

But there were much larger things at stake than her pride. She saw most humans as little more than ants, and it was extremely annoying that she had to seek their help, but it was merely a means to an end.

There was a threat against her master that needed to be taken care of. A certain Mahjarrat youngling with a destiny that needed to be nipped in the bud.

* * *

_Avis was in a boat. It was a tiny little thing—small, single mast, an oar, a pail, and a little toothpick of a rudder. There was no sail to give the boat proper propulsion, but the existing wind was strong enough to churn the boat along without the help of the shaped cloth._

_Avis gripped the mast hard enough to turn his knuckles even more bone-white than they usually were. The waves were like hills—when he was at the top, he could see the stormy sea for miles in any direction, its choppy, foamy surface illuminated in brief flashes by the lightning bolts that seared through the night._

_When the boat dipped down into the trough, it was as if he were standing in a gorge, though this gorge's walls were made of ocean, not rock._

_By some miracle, the boat had yet to sink. Avis's heart pounded faster and faster as he stared into the sky. The night was brightening, but not into daytime. An inferno was coming._

_Well, _two_ infernos, to be exact. One of red fire, the other of blue—each roaring towards one another from opposite directions. Great walls of flame, consuming everything in their paths._

_Avis was stuck in the middle. He gripped one of the ropes with his other hand as the wind blew even harder, causing the waves to toss the boat around like a juggler's ball. The heat was intense enough to blister the boy's skin._

_The sky above Avis lit up in a terrifying purple blaze as the red and blue flames collided. The sea convulsed as the warring infernos burst out in a blinding explosion of white light._

_Avis was thrown from the boat. He screamed as he pitched down into the raging black waters_…

…and up into a low-lying tree branch.

Jerrod had always enjoyed rousing his pupil by splashing water in his face—it always gave him such a jolt. But this time he jolted too fast and smacked his head on the tree branch which he had been sleeping under.

"Rather jumpy this morning, are we?" the Cleric chuckled, returning to the crackling campfire which he had tended throughout the previous night.

"I had another dream…" Avis mumbled, massaging the small bruise that was already forming over his left eye.

"More red and blue?" Jerrod asked, arching a curious eyebrow. He wasn't surprised when his pupil gave a nod. Lately, Avis had been having a lot of dreams involving red and blue.

Two fighting warriors—one clad in red armor, the other in blue. Two bolts of lightning—one red, another blue. Two storm clouds, two avalanches, two wildfires…

They all involved two forces in conflict with each other, and those two forces were always red and blue. And in every one of these dreams, Avis always found himself caught between the two forces. Killed by the warriors, burned by the wildfires, crushed by the avalanches…

It did not take an expert healer to know that the red and blue were representative of the two warring Gods whose conflict the young Mahjarrat was quite literally caught in the middle of.

Both sought to use him for their own agendas, though Zamorak seemed to be more than happy to have him killed to deny him to Saradomin. Personally, Jerrod didn't care for either of the Gods using his student as a tool. But, if he had to choose between them, he would admit that having the boy fight for Saradomin would be the lesser of two evils.

An important—and in many ways, _unique_—thing to understand about the Cleric was that he recognized that no single God should ever be allowed to rule over the world. Having Zamorak at the helm without Saradomin to counter him, or vice wersa, would be disastrous.

Secretly—and the Cleric had never revealed this to _anyone_—Jerrod believed Gielinor would be much better off without any Gods at all. By this, he did not mean that the Gods should be destroyed; rather, he thought they should simply…go away.

This war, and all of the destruction that it had wrought…it all boiled down to two Gods, both vying for control of the world and its inhabitants…

They were dangerous opinions to have, especially in times like these, and normally he would take them to the grave without speaking of them…but he was prepared to make an exception, here. Though most people didn't know it, Avis was potentially the most important person in Gielinor, right now, and he was young enough to be untainted by the religious fanatics out there.

Even more fortunately, he had grown up amongst the Menaphites, who generally paid homage to Tumeken the Sun God rather than Saradomin. But it was important to try and ensure that someone with the Mahjarrat's power fulfilled his destiny for the right reasons. The Cleric didn't want Avis buying into the religious crap that the Church of Saradomin would have the populace believe.

"I'm going to Awaken you at the Earth Temple, today," Jerrod announced, pouring himself a steaming cup of coffee from the pot he had fashioned out of the earth last night.

"Is it going to be anything like what happened at the Water Temple?" the boy sounded apprehensive, and with good reason. When Jerrod had Awakened his inner Water, he had reacted almost violently with the pure elemental energy infused in the Water altar.

"I don't know," the Cleric was able to honestly answer. "When I Awakened you back in the Virid Swamp…that was the first time I've ever used the Temples like that. I don't know how it'll go. Could be the same, could be completely different."

"Better not be like last time…" Avis muttered.

Jerrod took another few minutes, waiting until he thought his coffee was sufficiently cooled before resuming the conversation.

"Why do you intend to fight Zamorak, boy?" the Cleric finally asked.

Avis was caught off-guard by the question that had just come out of the blue. "I…you…well, he's gonna burn the world, isn't he? Saradomin has to win the war to stop that from happening."

Jerrod was silent as he sipped from his coffee. It was still a little too hot to drink, so he touched a finger to the side of his mug. There was a breath of cold air and a film of frost crept across the rim of the cup. It cooled the drink down enough for him to finish it in several gulps.

Normally he'd take more time to enjoy his coffee, but he wanted to get the business at the Earth Temple over with. The less time they wasted here, the better.

Once Jerrod and Avis packed up, strapped on their swords, and got back onto the road, the Cleric decided to resume voicing his opinions on the Divine.

"You know the strange thing about chaos?" the Cleric asked the boy. "Most people say 'chaos', and they think of demons burning huge swathes of the world. But chaos itself comes in many different forms. Creativity, the ability to be spontaneous…_free will_…" Jerrod let that last remark sink in before going on. "So you see; Chaos itself is not evil. Zamorak takes the concept to an extreme—an extreme where he desires to tear down any semblance of law and order."

"That's the kind of chaos that'll tear Gielinor apart, though," Avis affirmed. "That's what needs to be destroyed."

"That extreme form of chaos, yes…but Chaos itself…" Jerrod's voice trailed off for a moment. "The strange thing about Chaos and Order is that, even though they are polar opposites, they compliment each other. Pure Chaos results in anarchy and ruin; this is what Zamorak offers. But consider the other side of the coin… Saradomin tirelessly seeks to eradicate chaos and establish order. Pure Order, without Chaos to counterbalance it, results in stagnation. No creativity. Nothing _new_."

"So wait…" Avis frowned. "You're saying that Order is bad, too?"

"No," Jerrod shook his head, careful to keep his rising impatience out of his voice. "You're missing the point. The point is moderation. _Balance_. Order and Chaos need to balance each other out to keep a world alive. Take away Order, and the world burns. Take away Chaos, and it suffocates."

The teacher and student climbed to the top of the hill they were currently on, leaving the road when Jerrod spotted a statue of a nondescript horseman—it was the landmark the Cleric had always used to find the path to the Earth Temple.

It wasn't even an actual _path,_ per se…just a way through the woods and around a chain of rather steep hills that Jerrod knew well.

"Did you know that Karamja wasn't always an island?"

"What?"

"It's true," Jerrod recounted. "You won't find this in any of the history books, because the Church would rather not publicize what their God caused. Several thousand years ago, the God Zaros ruled the largest empire this land has ever seen—larger, even, than Centralia. Zamorak, his greatest general, rebelled against Empty Lord and deposed him."

"And then he became a God by siphoning Zaros's powers—we all know the story," Avis finished for the Cleric.

Jerrod snapped his fingers, and small motes of fire sprang into existence around his knuckles. "Avis, we've talked about this whole 'interrupting-me-while-I'm-talking' thing."

"Sorry."

The Cleric extinguished the flames. "Anyhow, the other Gods banished Zamorak shortly after his victory over his former master…but he comes back soon after that with his powers fully manifested, and he brings his twisted ideals of Chaos with him, and he begins wreaking havoc… Tensions between Saradomin and Zamorak rose until they finally met each other in direct battle in the kingdom of Syran."

"Never heard of it."

"That's because the elemental energies released by the two Gods fighting each other was powerful enough to completely destroy the entire kingdom. Syran sank into the sea, creating the Knossos Bay, which now separates Karamja from the mainland. The only part of Syran that didn't sink was a mountain which we now call Crandor Island," Jerrod explained. "That single battle between Saradomin and Zamorak was destructive enough to change the very face of Gielinor. I tell you this now because it is important that you realize that Chaos is not inherently evil, and Order is not inherently good. Something _I_ realized a while ago was that while some claim this war to be a struggle between Order and Chaos… What happens when you put a Saradominist and a Zamorackian in the same room?"

"They fight," Avis replied.

"But _why_ do they fight?" Jerrod pressed on, pushing the branch of a pine tree away from his face as he continued up the hillside.

"Because they disagree?"

"Well, yes, but it's more than that; both of them are arrogant enough to think they are superior to the other, and so when they slight one another…the tension will build and build and build until a fight is inevitable. Now bring it up to the Gods' level. You put Saradomin and Zamorak in the same world together—_here_—and they're bound to fight each other. Chaos and Order can reach equilibrium…but Zamorak and Saradomin cannot. They represent the extremes of both sides, and extremes can never co-exist. They are like magnets…clash and repel, clash and repel… And because the Gods will inevitably fight, their immense power will scar this world again and again, until there will be nothing left but ash and smoke."

"You'd prefer it if the Gods were gone?" Avis sounded skeptical at first; the sheer concept of what Jerrod seemed to be suggesting just seemed so...ridiculous. But then the boy noticed how deadly serious his mentor was. "A world without the Gods?" the boy murmured, his voice quiet as he tried to imagine such a place.

"Now you see why I've always kept these opinions to myself," Jerrod chuckled. "I'd be hung up on a gibbet for expressing them. I tell them to you so that you might develop a more open mind. Even now, both Gods seek to influence you, to bend your logic and reasoning to follow their own."

"How can you have these opinions of Saradomin when you are loyal to him?" Avis frowned, still not completely understanding his mentor's rationalizing.

"I serve Saradomin, but I am not loyal to him," Jerrod corrected the Mahjarrat youngling. "I am loyal to Centralia, because the Centralians are the best hope this world has for survival…not Saradomin. But this is the advice I give to you: the world needs Balance. The Prophecy says you will bring this war to an end. I do not know how you will accomplish this, or what the outcome will be…but when the smoke clears, you must fight to maintain that balance. Without the balance, the world will never heal. Never side with a God; always side with the people. Now, why don't we take a short rest here?"

"A rest? Really?" Avis arched an eyebrow. "Why _now,_ all of a sudden? You usually enjoy running me ragged until sunset."

Jerrod pointed to the top of the hill, where Avis could just barely make out the top of a broken-down pillar. "Because we've arrived at the Earth Temple," the Cleric said.

* * *

The man was screaming pretty loudly, now. It amused Enakhra how low some people's tolerances for pain could be. Granted, she _had_ put a red-hot pebble into the man's stomach, but _still_…

"Are you still too drunk to answer me properly?" the she-Mahjarrat asked calmly, keeping her swelling impatience from bubbling over. This man had been reluctant to divulge the location of the man whom she was seeking. This irked Enakhra, somewhat.

"Alright, alright!" the man managed to squeak out as he clutched and tore at his own stomach, trying in vain to get the pebble that was burning inside of him. "He's in the Bloody Imp, the tavern just down the street! Now get this thing out of me!"

"Sure thing," Enakhra snapped her fingers and a cherry-red pebble appeared out of thin air, dropping down and searing right through the wooden floor. The she-Mahjarrat than grasped the man by the throat and incinerated him from the inside out, reducing him to a pile of ashes in mere seconds. He hadn't even had a chance to scream. "I appreciate your help."

The female Mahjarrat stepped out of the pile of ash's hovel and back onto the street. No one gave her anymore trouble as she walked across the dirt street and found herself in front of a building that actually wasn't in very bad shape, compared to the rest of Bandit's Hollow. It wasn't slanting to the side, and there were no holes in the walls, for starters.

The front sign had an image of a small, red imp with blood spattered across the white background, and the words _Bloody Imp_ stenciled in below. This was definitely the tavern the pile of ash had indicated.

Enakhra strode into the tavern, pushing open the swinging wooden doors and heading straight over to the bar counter. "Where's the leader of all this scum?" she asked the tavern owner, gesturing to all of the grimy, burly men who formed the ranks of the tavern regulars.

The owner couldn't quite explain the tension that suddenly arose in his muscles, but something warned him not to cross this strange woman. Wordlessly, he nodded in the direction of a table set in the back corner, where a lone man was sipping from a tankard of mead.

"Thank you," Enakhra said to the owner as she sidled away. "You may keep your life."

The tavern owner watched her turn and walk away before realizing he had been holding his breath the whole time. He quickly returned his attention to cleaning the stack of used mugs set by the basin. That was something that wouldn't in something deadly and unexpected.

The man at the table looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. He had thin, dark hair, small eyes, a slightly crooked nose, and the beginnings of facial hair on the lower half of his face. Despite his outward uncleanliness, it was easy to tell that he had once served in the Centralian legions—his body was in perfect health and shape, and his muscles still showed through his tattered clothing.

Right now, he looked angry. Not throwing-glasses-against-the-walls angry, but silent, brooding angry. This was good; he would be able to listen to the she-Mahjarrat more effectively if he wasn't distracted with venting his anger by breaking things.

"Tullius Beaumont," Enakhra slipped into the chair facing the bandit leader. "Or should I call you Beaumont the Blackguard? It is good to lay eyes on you at last. The people here were not exactly inclined to tell me where you were, but I can be very…persuasive."

"Why don't you give me one good bloody reason why I shouldn't have you thrown out on your pretty arse?" Beaumont growled, setting down his mead and dropping his hand onto the hilt of his mithril sword.

Enakhra made no move, even as three burly men behind her took a threatening step forward. "That would be unwise," she smiled.

When Beaumont gave the center man a nod, he stepped forward and laid a hand on Enakhra's shoulder. The moment he touched her red cloak, hwoever, his hand started to burn. Within an instant, it had been reduced to ash.

The hooded woman whipped around, raising both hands and curving her fingers towards his chest. Suddenly, the man found himself unable to move. He couldn't breathe, either.

There was a sickening _crunch,_ followed by a shower of blood as Enakhra—who had gained control of the air currently in the man's lungs—ripped that very same air through his lungs and out of his chest. The man, whose chest was now little more than an open, sanguine hole, gurgled and twitched for several moments before crumpling.

The tavern fell silent as heads swung around to find the source of the commotion. Many of them saw the woman, saw the dead man on the floor with no chest…then merely shrugged and returned to their drinks. Before long, even the music was back to normal.

"Normally I burn people like your friends from the inside out, but I think you required a more…gory demonstration, shall we say?" Enakhra's cold smile widened a fraction. She then extended a hand towards Beaumont, focused on the Blackguard, and closed the hand into a grip.

Beaumont shuddered as every inch of his body suddenly seized up.

"I wonder what it would feel like to have your blood torn out…" Enakhra mused. "One vein, one artery at a time…"

"Release me, witch," Beaumont managed to grunt semi-intelligibly.

"Oh, I am no witch…" Enakhra sighed. "If you knew _half_ of what I truly was, you would have soiled yourself the moment I walked in. But, in the interest of time…" Enakhra unclenched her fist.

Beaumont gave a groan of relief as the pinching hold over his circulatory system was released. "What the hell do you want with me?"

"Information," the she-Mahjarrat replied.

"I hold a lot of information," Beaumont shrugged, raising his tankard back up to his mouth, taking another drought of mead. "Could you be a little more specific?"

"Your tongue has a bad habit of speaking too much and out of turn," Enakhra observed. "Perhaps you should consider allowing me to remove it."

The bandit leader swallowed nervously. "My apologies, ma'am. Please," he gestured for her to continue.

"Word has it that you took a small raiding party into the woods to prey on travelers, several weeks ago," Enakhra recounted. "Word also has it that you tried to rob an old man and a young boy…and they ended up killing almost your entire force."

"Yes, yes; the horrible Beaumont the Blackguard, foiled by an old man and his brat," the bandit leader grumbled. "It has not done wonders for my reputation. But I do not care. Damn every single person who has laughed at me…they were not there. They did not see what that old man and his brat were capable of…"

Enakhra smiled inwardly. She now had no doubt that Beaumont had indeed encountered Jerrod the Lightbringer and her offspring. But still…it paid to be certain. "My interest lies not with you, but with them. Describe them to me, please."

"Well…" Beaumont the Blackguard frowned slightly as he forced himself to call up those hated memories. "Uh…the old man was probably in his sixties, or so…salt and pepper hair, a beard that's starting to become long, gray eyes, black cloak, North Centralian accent, carried this weird staff that changed colors…"

"And the boy?"

"Nothing special, really," Beaumont shrugged. "Black hair, bone-white skin, freckles…he was wearing all black, too—a black vest and torn cloth pants. But the only odd thing about him was his eyes…red eyes, they were. Never seen anything like it in all my years, 'cept in albinos, but he was definitely _not_ an albino…"

There was no longer any doubting Enakhra's heart. Beaumont had seen an old man and a young boy traveling on the road without anything in the way of armed guards. They seemed like the perfect prey for a mugging, so the Blackguard would have attacked…not realizing that he was going up against a Mahjarrat and one of the most dangerous men in all of Gielinor.

Enakhra wondered if the bandit leader realized just how lucky he had been to escape. She wondered what it was like to feel lucky in that manner…she had never barely escape a fight with her life, before. Usually it was her enemies who were doing the escaping.

"Where were you when this happened, and which way were those two individuals going?" Enakhra asked next.

"We ran into them in the fringes of the Avarrockan Hills, southeast of here," Beaumont replied, draining the rest of his mead in a single gulp. He signaled the tavern keeper for another. "They were heading north, past Avarrocka. No idea what they'd be heading for, though… Only thing up that way is the bloody Wilderness."

Enakhra was no longer listening to the man. In truth, she had completely forgotten about him. Even before he finished speaking, she smiled, rose from her chair, and abruptly left the tavern. She was smiling because she knew two things.

First, she knew that Jerrod the Lightbringer was training her son in the elemental magicks. And not only that, but she now knew _how_ he was doing it…and that coincided with the second thing she knew. There _was_ something in between Avarrocka and the Wilderness besides trees and empty hills.

Jerrod was taking the boy to the Earth Temple.


	15. Chapter 15: First Move

Chapter Fifteen: First Move

Lord Fernando arrived at the Temple of Izanagi—or Tumeken, depending on which civilization you asked—barely five minutes after he received the summons of the Shogun himself.

The Centralian Praetor requested for Althos to accompany him—as centurion of the _Silver Arrow's_ marines, the Praetor felt that he, too, deserved to be present at meetings of the senior warriors under the command of the Shogun.

"I do hope they're planning the bloody assault on the capital, already," Althos grumbled as he made his way through the woods to the Ainu temple, alongside his superior. "If we try to keep the men cooped up here without women for much longer…"

"Curious things, the minds of men, are they not?" Lord Fernando mused. "The world stands on the brink of destruction, yet the men can still occupy their thoughts with their lust for cunt. I do miss being a young man…"

Lord Fernando, to be fair, wasn't exactly an old man. He was in his mid-forties; not old enough to be considered a senior citizen, but also not young enough to still be in his prime.

"Have you any family, Praetor?" the naval centurion asked.

"I do," Lord Fernando nodded slowly. "My wife, Aurelia, resides with my son in our estate. We live in the Iuveni Province, just south of Tethys. We have our own orchards, you see, and…" Lord Fernando realized that he was beginning to lose track of what he was saying, and he quickly stopped himself. He mentally berated himself for discussing his personal life with a subordinate. "It would appear that your men are not the only ones afflicted with homesickness."

"It would appear that way," Althos agreed, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The two Centralians arrived at the Temple of Izanagi shortly afterwards. After removing their boots and touching the feet of the small golden statue of Izanagi set in a niche next to the entrance, they ducked inside.

The interior of the temple was illuminated by four flickering torches at each corner of the space. At the front of the temple was the altar—a solid gold likeness of the Sun God's visage and symbol—with two bronze braziers of fire burning on either side, adding to the illumination of the temple's interior.

The room itself was somewhat stuffy, and it smelled of incense. Though he wouldn't dare voice such an opinion, Fernando believed the temple could use some better ventilation.

Kneeling in front of the altar was the Shogun himself, dressed in his common brown robes. His katana lay on the floor in front of him. Upon the Centralians' arrival, he straightened up and turned around to greet them.

Also present in the temple were two other Ainu. The one both Fernando and Althos recognized was the samurai Niten—who was the Shogun's closest equivalent to the Centralian military's _Optio,_ or 'second-in-command'. The other Ainu present in the temple was Rei—he was an older man, well into his sixties or seventies, dressed in yellowish-white robes. He was also the leader of the Shogun's shamans—the Ainu equivalent, more or less, to the Centralian Paladins.

"I thank you for your timely arrival, Praetor Iulus," the Shogun gave the Praetor and the naval centurion a respectful bow, using Lord Fernando's formal title and name. The two Centralians returned the bow. Lord Fernando was feeling the slightest bit apprehensive—the Shogun's manner was somewhat stiffer than normal.

"Bad news?" the Centralian Praetor inquired, taking a seat on one of the stone benches.

"Your perception does you credit," the Shogun grinned mirthlessly. "Though, unfortunately, it changes nothing. My scouts returned from Oēn an hour ago, with news of the capital city. I was going to call you here this time tomorrow to begin planning the assault on Kātayō, with the scouts' reports in mind, but… I fear things have changed."

"The Emperor and the Marshal have managed to mobilize our entire fleet," Niten continued, picking up where his superior had left off. "Our original plan for a two-pronged land and sea attack is no longer feasible with the Kātayō Harbor completely blocked off."

"So we must attack the city solely by land?" Althos frowned. "I cannot say I fancy the idea."

"Nor can I," the Praetor had to agree with his subordinate. "With the harbor secure, the city's defenders could hold off a land-based army almost indefinitely."

"Now you see the problem," the Shogun's expression did not change.

"The Daimyos sympathetic to your cause…do they remain sympathetic?" Lord Fernando asked the Shogun.

The Ainu military leader nodded once. "The Daimyos sympathetic to our cause are ready to march on a moment's notice, each with their own forces of samurai…though I will not give such an order until we have a chance at victory."

The Praetor arched an eyebrow in surprise. "How positively Centralian of you."

Niten pursed his lips at that remark, but kept silent. A little humor wasn't all that harmful, the veteran samurai reasoned with himself.

"It is the Ainu custom to succeed, or die trying; always has been, always will be," the Shogun sighed. "No retreat, no turning back, no surrender. But when the Emperor's life hangs in the balance, anything _less_ than total victory is unacceptable. And if I wager everything on a full frontal attack on the city walls, total victory will prove to be an elusive prize."

"Perhaps…" Lord Fernando murmured, ideas beginning to swirl around in his mind. He absent-mindedly started to stroke his beard before catching himself and lowering his hands back to his sides. "…or perhaps not."

"I will admit, our samurai may be superior fighters, but the subtleties of tactical warfare were never one of our strengths," the Shogun confessed, sitting down in front of the altar once more, facing the Centralian Praetor and the naval centurion. "I consider this a task better suited for Centralians, whose armies operate based on tactics and coordination even between its lowest-ranking soldiers. I welcome any ideas you may have."

"I may have an idea," Lord Fernando nodded. "Less of a detailed plan, at the moment…just an idea."

"Let us all join the circle and discuss, then," the Shogun, gestured for the others to join him in front of the altar. Lord Fernando and Centurio Althos sat opposite the Shogun, while Niten and Rei sat on either side of their leader. Normally, there would be pillows to sit upon, rather than the earthen 'floor', but this conclave had been rather impromptu.

"When you mentioned our only possibility of attack being a frontal assault on the city walls…something sprang to mind," the Praetor began. "When training for the legions, our soldiers partake in many exercises and drills. One of these exercises is _Aquila Capta_—capture the eagle. In this exercise, two opposing forces are put in an area of varying terrain, with their respective standards—which are wooden eagles, hence the name—planted in defensible locations. The objective is not to defeat the opposing force…it is simply to steal the opponent's _aquila_ and bring it back to your own hill."

The Shogun frowned. "I do not follow," he stated.

"My point is that, in this scenario, the Marshal's forces—those who would be defending the city walls—are the opposing force…but the Emperor is the _aquila,_" Lord Fernando explained. "Whether we win or lose against the opposing force does not matter—all that matters is the eagle. You have an army ready to march, Shogun—I say you give the order. Mass your army on Oēn; attack the city walls. Such an attack has no real chance of success, so do your best to prolong it, and make it appear as if you are throwing everything you have at the walls…as any self-respecting Ainu samurai would do."

"You propose a diversion?" Niten arched an eyebrow.

Lord Fernando grinned. "It is one of the oldest and most overused tricks in the book…but sometimes _simple_ is better. Niten, you were able to get a small force of your own samurai into the Imperial Palace in order to liberate me… What I propose is that we do the exact same thing. While your armies hammer the walls and draw the attention of the defenders, we can get a smaller strike force—several of your samurai and your shamans, as well as Althos and his men…and Cicero, my paladin. We can storm the palace, subdue the Emperor, and break Zamorak's hold over him."

There was silence for a few good minutes as the other assembled leaders assessed and pondered the Praetor's seat-of-his-pants plan. Lord Fernando had thought of it in a few minutes' time, so it wasn't anywhere near perfect…but it was still something to work with.

With the news of the harbor being blocked off, having something to work with _period_ was a good start.

"It will not work," Niten finally declared. "I was able to infiltrate the palace with a dozen samurai—what you are proposing would require a much larger force. Take me and my samurai, add Rei and his shamans, account for your own soldiers and your mage…you would be looking at a force of forty to fifty men. That is quite different from a dozen, and half of them would be your pale-skinned, round-eyed folk. You would be noticed. It will not work."

Lord Fernando considered this for a few moments, but wasn't quite ready to give up on his idea just yet. "Then we infiltrate Kātayō days, weeks ahead of schedule. We go in groups of three or four—only one or two Centralians per group—and we scatter ourselves around the capital city. When the Shogun's attack begins, we meet at a rendezvous point…and take things from there."

Niten frowned and muttered something to the Shogun in rapid-fire Kurigana. They had a brief conversation, and Rei quickly joined in. Lord Fernando exchanged a brief glance with Althos, displeasure at being left out of the conversation evident in his eyes for a split-second.

Then Niten turned back to the Praetor and said, "There are a thousand ways such a plan could go wrong…but what you propose is worth attempting."

"Except for another problem," the Shogun interjected. "Your entire plan is one of diversion…hinging on the defenders being completely distracted by my assault on the city walls. I am afraid such an attack would not have the desired effect. You see, it does not take very much to defend the walls of Kātayō from a frontal assault—the defenders know as well as I do that such an attack will be doomed to failure; as such, it will not keep them focused on the walls."

"If this were to work, we would need to make the defenders truly think that our breaking through the city walls is a possibility," Niten built off what his superior had already said. "But I don't see how we can accomplish this; not with the forces we have at our command."

Lord Fernando asked the Shogun what kinds of siege equipment he would have at his disposal. He learned from the Ainu military commander that they would be going up against the walls with little more than common battering rams and a few catapults.

The Praetor shook his head slightly—lightly enough so that the gesture wouldn't be noticed by his Ainu counterparts. Lord Fernando knew that the Ainu were a warring race—rebellious Daimyos constantly fought one another for land and power—but he had no idea how they could fight a real war with the tactics they normally employed.

The Praetor then considered the fact that the Ainu—to his knowledge, at least—had probably never stood united against a common enemy in the past. Many of their conflicts had been fighting to expand provincial borders at neighbors' expenses, or strife over the Imperial throne.

The Ainu also resided on an archipelago of five giant islands, along with dozens, hundreds of smaller ones—they were insulated from the rest of Gielinor by the oceans that surrounded them. The Centralian Army, by contrast, had to deal with the constant threat of the Wilderness to the north, as well as monster activity beyond the River Salve to the east—the Ainu never had to deal with such issues, negating any real need for them to have a strong, centralized military.

Even as the Praetor settled back and started to brainstorm, Althos spoke up.

"I think I may have a solution to that problem," the naval centurion declared. "I believe it will make the defenders treat the Shogun's attack as a serious threat if we can pull it off…though I fear it will not be a popular solution."

"Please, share it," Niten gestured for Althos to continue. The naval centurion went on to explain his solution to the latest problem; how to make sure the assault on the city walls would force the defenders to focus all of their concentration on the Shogun.

After Althos was finished explaining himself, the three Ainu leaders seemed to have been satisfied. The Shogun raised an eyebrow to Lord Fernando. "Praetor Iulus, does this course of action sit well with you?"

"I will have to speak with Captain Harcourt, the Navarch of the _Silver Arrow,_" the Praetor replied. "And I agree with Althos when he says it will not be popular with the men… But popularity holds no precedence over effectiveness. We shall proceed accordingly."

The Shogun gave a single nod. "It is decided, then. I will send word to the Daimyos sympathetic to my cause, and our combined armies shall arrive on Oēn in a fortnight. You, Praetor, and your men shall go with Niten and Rei to Nogura before Izanagi's brilliance rises on the morrow. If your plan of infiltration is to work, you must reach Kātayō long before my army arrives."

The two Centralians rose to their feet and exchanged bows with the three Ainu leaders. "I shall inform my men of our plans immediately," Lord Fernando assured the Shogun. "If any man is not ready, it will not be due to ignorance."

"Go, then," the Shogun nodded to them. "And may the Sun smile upon you. Niten will come to collect you when it is time for you to depart."

"_Shogun,_" Lord Fernando bowed one last time, then turned on his heel and walked out of the temple.

The Praetor and the naval centurion made their way through the forest, back the way they had come. The temple had been situated at the top of a hill—the hill itself wasn't really visible because it was covered with trees.

"Well, it would seem the die has been cast," Althos remarked as the woods began to start thinning out, revealing the meadows that Kakusa re ta's village was situated in. "There is no turning back, now."

"There never _was,_" Lord Fernando grunted, striding out into the tall grass, heading straight toward the village. "The moment the King told me to secure an alliance with the Ainu, there was no turning back."

The two Centralians passed by several samurai who were practicing some form of meditative, internal martial arts. They stood in the tall grass, making slow, smooth, flowing gestures with their hands, arms, and feet. As he observed them, the Praetor guessed that such a form of martial arts was more for healthy and meditative purposes, rather than for actual combat.

"Centurion," Lord Fernando turned to Althos once they reached the village. "Gather the men, tell them of our plans, and make sure they are ready to leave by sunset."

"Your will, my hands. _Praetor,_" Althos clasped a fist to his heart in a salute. Lord Fernando returned the gesture, and the naval centurion went on his way.

Lord Fernando made his way through the village, exchanging quick words of greeting with several of the snowy-haired elders. He bowed to any samurai he happened to walk past, as well. He continued on through the rest of the village until he crossed through to the fields on the other side, where the other Centralians had set up camp.

The Praetor walked up to the tent of the _Silver Arrow's_ Paladin, who Lord Fernando had insisted accompany the marines from Nogura to Kakusa re ta. "Cicero!" the Centralian politician called into the small cloth structure. "I would have words."

There was a rustling noise from within, and Cicero drew back the flap of his tent, stepping out into the early evening sunlight. "Praetor," he gave the customary salute to his superior, which Lord Fernando promptly returned. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Lord Fernando gave a faint, half-grin. "You are aware of what is expected of you in the future? Concerning the Sun Emperor?"

Cicero's own smile faded. "I am," he replied. "Though it will be a difficult endeavor. Exorcism is a nasty enough affair when common spirits or demons are involved—I have been asked to expel the taint of a _God_."

"You will not be alone," Lord Fernando assured the Paladin. "The Ainu shamans will be with you every step of the way. You, however, must be the one to enter the Sun Emperor's mind; the Ainu themselves will not lift a finger against him."

"Yes, this has been explained to me by Althos several times," the Paladin said evenly. "By Saradomin's everlasting light, it shall be done."

"That is what I like to hear," Lord Fernando nodded. "I remind you of this now because I have come to inform you that we are packing up and heading back to Nogura before dawn's first light tomorrow. And from there…we sail for the Ainu capital."

The Paladin's smile gradually returned. "I'll be ready."

The Praetor held his fist to his heart once more in a salute to the Paladin. "_Vires et Honestas_."

"Strength and Honor," the Paladin returned the gesture and mantra before retiring into his tent, presumably to gather his equipment for the coming march.

Lord Fernando did likewise. He spent his nights in a small, cloth tent at the edge of the Centralian encampment. He laid out his armor, his runite gladius, and his flintlock pistol, as well as the small pouch of ammunition and black powder for that last weapon.

With nothing else to occupy his time, the Praetor spread out his thin bedroll and went to sleep.

Before he'd become the _de facto_ right hand of King Osman, Lord Fernando had served as a cohort centurion in _Legio III Iuvenis_—the III Iuvenian Legion. One of the first lessons he had learned during his legionary days was that one could never get too much sleep. On the rare occasion when he was not on watch, in battle, or occupying himself with duties involving the sustainment and operation of his unit…he had most likely been sleeping.

He did not remember any of his dreams when he was roused before dawn the next morning. Varro—Centurio Althos's _optio_—poked his head into the small tent and nudged the Praetor awake. "It's an hour before first light, sir," the marine reported as he withdrew. "The Shogun requests our departure."

"_Gratias,_" the Praetor thanked the Optio as he sat up. He quickly set about slipping into his armor, which took him less than ten minutes. He strapped his sword and pistol to his waist and stepped outside into the crisp, foggy Itoan morning.

The Praetor collapsed his tent and rolled it up with his bedroll. He then took two small lengths of rope and tied it all together in a neat bundle before hoisting it onto his back, using the rope bindings like shoulder straps.

A pair of marines stamped out the remnants of a campfire from the night before joining the rest of their comrades in formation for inspection. Althos, their centurion, walked along the ranks, making sure each man had his armor properly equipped and his gear correctly stowed.

As the Praetor moved to join them, Althos gave him a salute and a brief nod. "The men are ready to march, Praetor."

Lord Fernando ordered Althos to hold position until their Ainu compatriots arrived. Within a couple minutes, a dozen shamans—led by Rei, their leader—along with a retinue of forty or fifty samurai arrived at the Centralian encampment. At their head was Niten, clad in his polished and lacquered maroon armor, his two katanas strapped to his back.

The Ainu commander regarded the assembled Centralians with a grudging respect for their tidiness and organization. "It would appear that _gaijin_ are not heavy sleepers, after all," he mused. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting the foreigners to be ready to move so soon after he'd sent his message to the Praetor.

"Centralia is ready to march," the Praetor informed Niten, gesturing to the assembled marines. "By your leave, Niten-_dono_."

"We will leave Kakusa re ta and make our way down the slopes of _Yamakajida,_" Niten declared. "I have sent word ahead, and there will be horses waiting for us in the village of Onura, which we will ride the rest of the way to Nogura. Enjoy the reprieve; when we land on Oēn, we will be marching all the way to Kātayō."

The high-ranking samurai barked a command. The samurai and shamans immediately fell into formation and set off down the winding road that led up to the rim of the caldera that formed Kakusa re ta. Niten traded a nod with Lord Fernando before jogging off and taking his rightful place at the head of the column.

Once the samurai and shamans passed by, Lord Fernando gave Althos a nod.

"Form marching column!" the centurion barked. The twenty-odd marines all raised their shields and headed onto the road, keeping in formation. Satisfied that everything was in order, the centurion gave the order to march. "_Movete!_"

The legionaries set off after their Ainu counterparts. Lord Fernando fondly remembered marching from his days in the legions. It was a sight to see when the _march_ command was given, prompting roughly six thousand men at once to begin walking in time.

Of course, in battlefield conditions, centurions and legati would not worry about having the men marching in time—that was more for drills and parades. The purpose of a march was to keep a set pace—too fast, and the legion would burn itself out, rendering it useless. Too slow, and the legion would not arrive at its destination in time, _also _rendering it useless.

Lord Fernando placed his helmet over his head, tying the leather thong straps under his chin to secure it, as well as to hold the cheek plates firm over the sides of his face. He also had a heavy cloth facemask that covered his nose and mouth, but he only wore that in battle.

He took up position at the head of the much smaller Centralian column, alongside Althos and Cicero.

The Praetor looked up to the sky. Sunrise was still a little ways off; even though the skies to the east were now a navy blue, the majority of the heavens were still star-sprinkled black. Lord Fernando took in a deep breath through his nostrils, one side of his mouth curving up in a grin.

He did not enjoy marching into battle, or even battle itself…but he was relieved to finally be _doing_ something. He had arrived in the Ainu Empire weeks ago, ignorant of the danger he ended up walking right into. He had been attacked, imprisoned, rescued, and taken to safety along with his men; all of it out of his control.

Now, for the first time, the Praetor was going on the offensive.

And it felt _good_.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Okay, my Halo story is finally completed, so I can now devote some of my time to continuing this story. After not really writing this story for several months, completing this chapter was pretty difficult...but I think it'll get easier from here on out. I've also had some time to really think about where I wanted this story to go, as well as work out some minor details about the universe itself._

_I think the biggest issue was Centralia; when I started writing, I never had a real vision for it, other than it being a generic kingdom. But lately, I've decided to start portraying it almost like the Runescape equivalent of a Roman Empire. This makes sense to me; in Runescape, the Fifth Age is almost like the early Renaissance, the Fourth Age is like Dark Age of Europe...so the age before _that_ could plausibly be the equivalent of our Roman Empire. For the Humans, at least._

_Alright, I'll stop rambling, now. I just hope you guys haven't forgotten about this story!_

_-TheAmateur_


	16. Chapter 16: The Earth Temple

Chapter Sixteen: The Earth Temple

A man stood at the edge of a cliff, dressed entirely in black. He was tall, lean, and ghostly pale, but otherwise normal. The only unusual characteristics were the short black horns protruding from his forehead.

The cliff itself was made of a dark rock, devoid of any kind of vegetation. It stretched down into the yawning depths—there was no bottom that could be seen, only a thick mist.

And in that mist, the man in black saw images of Human soldiers fighting nightmarish beasts in a faraway swamp. They were not advancing, but retreating…they had been falling back for several weeks, now.

They were Centralian legionaries, fighting for the last major obstacle standing in the way of victory for the forces of darkness. The man in black watched impassively as the fight raged on. The soldiers were more than capable in combat, but the monsters were much more numerous.

The images in the mist showed a giant of a man—long, bushy gray beard snaking down from his helmet, runite sword cutting into anything inhuman that stepped within its reach, shield emblazoned with the symbol and motto of Centralia flashing in the light…

The man in black curled his lip at the sight of the man and waved his hand. The images dissolved into broad green grasslands and rolling hills. There was a large city. A city of cobblestones, bustling plazas and marketplaces, opulent buildings, the Arena, and the palace in the center…made of brilliant, scarlet stone that sparkled in the sunlight.

"Why the black robes?" someone asked. Someone other than the man in black. "Changing up your wardrobe? It is odd to see you out of your customary red."

A second man emerged from the fog behind the cliff's edge, also staring into the images shown in the mist of the abyss. He appeared much older than the man in black; his skin was lightly wrinkled, and a white beard extended from his chin down to his chest. He was dressed similarly to the man in black, only he wore robes of varying shades of blue. This was only appropriate, as he actually _was_ much older than the man in black.

It was the older man in blue who had spoken.

The man in black regarded him with barely-concealed hostility. "What are you doing off your cozy little island?"

"Thought I'd stretch my legs," the old man in blue chuckled. He nodded to the image of the city in the mist. "I'm sure you cannot wait to tear that place down brick by brick."

The man in black gave a snort. "Did you need to read my mind to figure that out, old man?"

The old man laughed again, quietly. "I hardly think you would behold the splendor of Tethys simply to admire. You have always had a fetish for destruction."

"It is nothing personal against the city itself," the man in black shrugged. He then hesitated, and seemed to reconsider. "Well, perhaps it is a _little_ personal. If I were to say that burning Centralia to the ground would give me no pleasure, I would be telling a vicious lie."

"You will not succeed," the old man declared. "The Prophecy-"

The man in black interrupted the old man with a rumble of laughter. "Your precious prophecy says the Mahjarrat boy will end the war. I'm afraid it says _nothing _about saving Centralia."

* * *

Avis came tumbling into the dimension of the Earth Altar, landing face-first in the dirt. He picked himself back up and wobbled on his feet a little bit, fighting a desperate battle to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged.

After another wave of nausea, the boy lost the battle. He staggered over to one of the stone pillars, leaned against it, and heaved his last meal out onto the ground. He was careful to avoid retching on his feet or sandals.

There was a flash of light, and an older, salt-and-pepper-haired man in a dark gray traveler's cloak materialized. In one hand, he held a staff whose orb glowed with many different colors at once. In his other hand, he held a small, silver talisman that glowed a gentle brown.

Jerrod stowed the earth talisman that had allowed him entry into the altar. He arched an eyebrow as he saw his pupil straightening up from one of the pillars. The Cleric raised his other eyebrow when he saw the puddle of vomit on the ground. "Entering the temples still doesn't agree with your stomach, eh?" the older man observed.

"What gave it away?" the boy muttered, spitting residue from his mouth.

"The vomit, mostly," the Cleric replied in a flawless deadpan. He gripped his staff and pointed it straight at the puke, muttering something under his breath. The vomit itself grew a much darker brown and seemed to harden into a solid shape before crumbling away into dirt. Grass then sprang from the newly-formed earth.

"Nice trick," the boy remarked.

"A simple transmutation," the Cleric shrugged. "Magician's tricks; nothing worth wasting your training time over."

Avis gazed at the Earth altar itself with wary eyes. Like the Water altar, it was a large stone dolmen with the symbol of Earth—two curving, parallel streaks, almost like rolling hills—carved into the top. The altar glowed a soft brown as well, identical to that of the corresponding talisman.

There was great power in this place, humming through the air. The temple itself was a large cavern…but it was much more than a hole in the earth. The cavern itself almost seemed to have a breath, a heartbeat of its own. The power of the altar hummed in time with this life force.

Avis ran a hand over the rough surface of the altar. "So…do I sit on it like last time?"

Jerrod dragged over a boulder and sat on top of it like a common chair. "When you're ready, boy."

"Last time, it felt like someone lit me on fire," the boy muttered. "I don't like feeling like I've been lit on fire…"

"Haven't we already had this conversation?" Jerrod frowned. "Something about you whining like a little girl, and me saying something encouraging, and you deciding to go ahead, be a man, and get Awakened?"

"No," Avis shook his head.

"Ah," Jerrod nodded once, frowning slightly. "Well, then, why don't we just pretend that it's already happened and skip to the end, shall we? The altar awaits."

"Fine…" the boy muttered, climbing onto the glowing dolmen and sitting cross-legged in the center. "If this hurts like last time, though, I swear I'll tan your hide next time we spar."

Jerrod grinned. "I look forward to it. Now close your eyes, little Mahjarrat."

Avis did as he was told, shutting his eyes and taking slow, deep breaths.

"Feel the Anima Mundi flowing through you. Feel the energy of Air and Water burning within you. You are Mahjarrat. You _are_ the elements," Jerrod droned, his voice gradually blending into the background. "Feel the power of Earth simmering inside you, almost like it is trying to break free. This place is a nexus of elemental Earth energy, and your Anima Mundi feels it. Stop tensing…let the energy flow into you, let it spark your own power."

Avis took another deep breath, and forced himself to stop resisting the humming energy of the altar. He felt a tugging sensation in his gut, and then a moment of agony, like he was being encased in frozen steel. In the Water temple, he had felt this way when suddenly exposed to the pure, raw elemental energy of the altar…but this time, the pain only lasted for a few moments before it subsided into mere discomfort.

Jerrod raised an eyebrow, watching as the glow of the altar intensified, pulsing rapidly. A semi-visible vortex of greenish-brown energy was whirling around the boy, who had begun to rise gently into the air. Last time he'd been unconscious, but now he was fully awake.

The boy had also reverted to his Mahjarrat form—his human visage had all but vanished, replaced by a living skeleton. The bones glowed a bright white, making it difficult to see through them as one would be able to see through a normal skeleton's. The eye sockets glowed a piercing scarlet, as well—the same color as Avis's eyes. And interestingly enough, if looked at very carefully, one would be able to see the boy's human face faintly flickering over the skull, like some kind of ghost image. And the skull itself burned with a cold, white fire—the same light that shone from the rest of his body.

Basically, he'd turned into something resembling a Lich. Jerrod had no idea if that was the true form of a Mahjarrat. No one really knew for sure what a Mahjarrat's true form was—the Menaphites did not call them the 'Faceless Ones' for no reason. But every Mahjarrat the Cleric had come across always seemed to revert to this strange Lich form…so perhaps it _was_ their basest appearance.

But back to more important issues.

The young Mahjarrat's white glow began to intensify, along with the vortex of greenish-brown energy swirling around the altar. Jerrod's other eyebrow slid up to join its twin. Though the Cleric had already witnessed this once, it was still every bit as mind-numbing as the last time.

The ground began to shake lightly, and the light grew too bright to look at. Jerrod was forced to avert his eyes. The altar started to pulse with a blistering heat. The Cleric manipulated the air around him into a shield of sorts, keeping the worst of the heat at bay.

Eventually, the light grew so fierce that the Cleric could not see anything but blinding white, no matter where he looked. He couldn't even see his own hands when he held them right in front of his eyes.

Then, after a steady minute or two, the light subsided, the quaking ceased, and the energy returned to its original, soft hum. Avis was lying on his back, breathing heavily. He was still in his skeletal form—every time he breathed in, the white glow around his torso burned slightly brighter.

Now that the blinding light had subsided and Jerrod was able to see Avis clearly, he ended up chuckling quietly to himself.

"What's so funny?" Avis asked. In his Mahjarrat form, his voice came out disembodied and gravelly—which was slightly unnerving for anyone who was used to hearing his 'normal', higher-pitched voice.

Jerrod had encountered his fair share of Mahjarrat in the past—Enakhra, Sliske, Azzanadra, to name a few…and Hazeel, too. He'd seen Mahjarrat in their Lich form many times, and it wasn't funny in the slightest…but they had all been wearing robes, or battle armor of some kind.

The sight of Avis, however—a frightening skeleton with bright, glowing white bones, a fiery skull, scarlet orbs for eyes…wearing a boy's cloth pants and an open black vest. It was an amusing spectacle.

Jerrod pointed this out to his pupil, still struggling to stifle his laughter.

Avis wasn't quite as amused. "This feels weird enough as it is, alright?" the boy-skeleton huffed, flexing its finger bones and clacking them together. "How do I get…uh…get _back?_"

The Cleric shrugged. "How should I know? I'm not the all-powerful, shapeshifting skeleton…in a boy's vest," Jerrod lapsed back into laughter as he added that last remark.

Avis muttered something on his breath and sat back down. He was painfully aware of his transformation, and he was not enjoying it. It was impossible to describe…but if anyone ever asked Avis what it felt like to be turned into a living skeleton, the boy would simply reply, "_Not good_."

If Avis still looked like a boy, he would have closed his eyes. In his current form…well, Jerrod wasn't exactly sure _what_ he did, but the burning scarlet eye sockets dimmed and winked out. The Cleric supposed that was the boy-skeleton's equivalent of closing his eyes,

Avis took another deep breath, and concentrated on himself. His _human_ self…or appearance, rather. Maybe it wasn't his true form, but he didn't want to go walking around as a glowing, flaming skeleton. That wasn't the best way to not attract attention. And it was also what the form he'd lived his entire life thus far in.

As the Cleric watched the young Mahjarrat concentrate, that flickering, almost invisible ghostly image of his human features started to solidify. As flesh began to reappear on his body, the bright glow of the skeleton's bones subsided and vanished. The cold white fire that burned from the boy's skull vanished as well. The only part of the Lich form that remained were the eyes,

Circles of black appeared in the centers of the two burning scarlet eye sockets. The circles grew a little more in size while the rest of the scarlet shrank to make a circle around the black centers—forming an iris and pupil, respectively.

Avis opened his eyes and took another deep breath, grateful to be breathing with normal lungs again. He glanced down, touching his stomach, feeling the newly-reformed flesh. He then moved his hand up to his chest, where he felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Yes, he was definitely back in human form.

Jerrod stood up from his boulder seat and stepped over to the altar, hoisting his pupil down from the stone dolmen. Avis wobbled on his feet again, but didn't throw up, thankfully. Probably because he'd already heaved up anything that might have been in his stomach upon entry to the temple.

"Well?" the Cleric asked. "Was it as bad as last time? It did not look it."

"No, it wasn't as bad," the boy admitted. "Still kinda hurt for a little bit, but it went away…and I wasn't knocked out, either. When the actual energy in me was sparked…in the Water Temple, it felt like I was on fire. This time, I only felt uncomfortably warm, with a lot of pins and needles."

"I think having two elements already Awakened made it much easier for the Earth energy to release," the Cleric surmised. "When we Awaken you for the final time at the Fire Temple, I would imagine that it will be even easier."

"When are we gonna get to do that?" Avis asked, a gleam lighting up his eyes. "Will I get to shoot fire from my hands, finally?"

"If you want to perform for an audience like a conjurer of cheap tricks, then yes," Jerrod grunted. "If, however, you desire to stop two angry Gods from destroying the world, you'll probably end up doing much more with the fourth element than…_ahem_…'shooting it from your hands'."

The boy decided not to reply. He had long since gotten used to his mentor's borderline cynical humor. While the things Jerrod said might have annoyed or affected him in the past, they did not faze him any longer.

The Cleric had taken note of this, as well, a long while ago, and had decided to keep the boy disciplined by threatening to whip him into next week during the next sword sparring bout. Once, a couple weeks ago, Jerrod had actually broken his pupil's jaw during a sparring bout, so Avis knew better than to take his mentor's threats lightly.

Jerrod and Avis left the Earth Temple without any further delay.

Teacher and student set off back into the woods of the Avarrockan Hills, eager to put some distance between them and the glowing ruins that were actually the entrance to the real Earth altar.

Though it was practical for them to avoid landmarks like the temple, Jerrod had another reason for getting back into the woods as quickly as possible. He had a gut feeling that staying anywhere near the Earth Temple would be a very bad idea, and he'd learned—after over forty years of fighting nightmares and coming out the other end alive—to trust what his gut told him.

And his gut had been right.

The sun had barely begun to set when a beautiful woman in a crimson cloak emerged from the shadow of a large tree near the entrance to the Earth Temple.

Enakhra stepped forward and strode right into the dimension of the Earth altar without any difficulty. She removed her hood when she appeared in the cavern that the altar was situated in, taking in a deep breath.

She then walked over to the altar and laid her hands upon it.

"_Mm_… Still warm…" she murmured.

The altar was not actually _warm_. What Enakhra felt was a sort of 'afterglow' of the massive energy surge that had occurred as a result of Awakening Avis. Judging on the feeling of the altar, Enakhra guessed that she'd missed her quarry by several hours. She pursed her lips, tempted to return to Bandit's Hollow and spill some blood…but she quickly forced those urges back down.

The she-Mahjarrat turned away from the altar and teleported back to the outside world. At first, she was at a loss when she wondered which direction her quarry was going in. Then she remembered how Jerrod the Lightbringer was Awakening her son.

A crude method, taking him to the elemental temples…but apparently effective.

The boy was already proficient in Air, and he'd already been Awakened at the Water and Earth altars…which left only one temple, and therefore only _one_ direction for them to be traveling in.

Enakhra gave a faint, wolfish grin as she started heading east.


	17. Chapter 17: Setting the Board

Chapter Seventeen: Setting the Board

The Ainu ship plowed through the waves, propelled onward by a strong westerly wind. Oēn, while being the largest island in the Ainu Empire, was also the westernmost island. This was actually convenient for relations between the Ainu and Centralia, having their seat of power situated at the first part of the Empire a Westerner would stumble across.

Unfortunately, this also meant that barely any Centralians had seen the Ainu Empire beyond the walls of Kātayō. Lord Fernando wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he and his party had been the first Centralians ever to set foot on Ito island, for one.

Lord Fernando supposed it was good that he was seeing more of the Ainu Empire than any other outsider had ever seen before…he only wished that it had taken something other than Zamorak tainting the Sun Emperor for it to happen.

The Praetor leaned against one of the posts supporting the command tent that was situated on the highest deck, towards the rear of the ship. Some of Nogura's most experienced seamen had volunteered to provide the samurai and their Centralian counterparts with transportation to Oēn.

Arald Harcourt—the navarch of the _Silver Arrow_—had been opposed to the idea of not being the one to transport the Praetor and his entourage. "If you're attacked in one of those Ainu toothpicks, you won't stand a bloody chance."

"This is true," Lord Fernando had conceded. "However, our insertion into Kātayō relies on stealth. If a Centralian warship is spotted heading for Oēn… No more stealth. The city will be locked down and we will have no prayer of getting inside."

"I suppose…" the naval captain still didn't sound very happy, but he could not deny his leader's reasoning. "Do try and keep yourself alive, will you? Fleetmaster Straume will have my head if I return home without you."

And so, the Praetor found himself on the _Kashihara_—an Ainu warship that had been disguised as a whaling vessel. Other Ainu ships had been encountered these past few days, but no suspicions had been aroused. Whenever another vessel came into sight, the Centralians all went belowdecks, so all the other ships could see was a crew of stone-faced, weather-beaten whalers.

It was somewhat amusing to see Niten dressed in an oily greatcoat rather than the maroon armor he seemed to never take off. He could have very easily kept his armor and remained belowdecks, but he hated being cooped up in the stuffy hold, so he swallowed some of his pride and donned the disguise.

The high-ranking samurai saw the Praetor eyeing him and gave a questioning grunt.

"You wearing such an attire is an anomaly to the eyes," Lord Fernando remarked, nodding to the samurai warrior's greatcoat.

Niten gave a quiet sigh. "A small price to pay for our secrecy…" he murmured, running a finger down one of the sleeves. "But irritating nonetheless."

It had taken over a week for the _Silver Arrow_ to sail from Oēn to Ito, but that was because it had been sailing against the wind. With the wind now at their backs, the _Kashihara_ was able to make the journey in roughly half that time.

Two days ago, they had rounded the southwestern spur of Ryukyu, the third-largest of the Ainu isles. Even now, the Daimyos loyal to the Shogun's cause were marching their armies across Ryukyu. In a week's time, all of the Shogun's forces would be mobilized on the very coast that the _Kashihara_ had sailed past. Then they would all cross to Oēn and march on the capital.

After clearing Ryukyu, it took only another two days to cross the Haku Straits—the body of water separating the two great island-states. It was nighttime when the captain of the ship decided to take the _Kashihara_ into port.

"We were very careful in choosing our ports," Niten said to the Centralians, shrugging off his greatcoat. The other samurai and the Ainu shamans were doing likewise, losing their whaler garments and slipping back into their armor and robes. "This is Daichyi, one of Oēn's chief port cities. We must tread softly, however…the Daimyo of this _han_ is Yōzei Tsunesuke, and he is one of the hardline loyalists. Should we be discovered on his lands…our plans would require adjusting."

"Better to not be discovered on his lands," Lord Fernando agreed.

Althos and his men all strapped their shields to their backs before covering themselves with long, brown traveler's cloaks. These would hide their fair skin, which would stand out a tad bit amongst the bronze-skinned Ainu.

"We have used this dock many times in the past," Niten crossed over to the landward side of the hold, now fully dressed in his armor. He gave two of his men a nod. They bowed and strode over to the side of the hold, where they unsealed the hatch that was normally used for loading supplies directly into the hold.

It wasn't a very commonly used hatch, and the docks on this particular wharf were incompatible—they were elevated above the water and therefore could only be used to board a ship's deck, not its hold.

The hatch opened to reveal the dark, faintly moonlit waters of the Daichyi Bay. The dock that the _Kashihara_ was moored to was directly overhead, obscuring the sky. Water lapped against the hull not far below the opening.

Niten stepped down from the hatch…and onto the surface of the water. He moved out under the dock and started heading towards shore. From this angle, it looked like he was walking on the water.

Several of the other samurai followed him before he stopped and waited for the Centralians to follow. Lord Fernando was the first to step out through the hatch. He was apprehensive at first, but the hesitation vanished when his foot reached the water, went down about an inch or so, and found purchase on a solid surface.

He quickly saw that stone slabs had been placed under this particular dock that ran right under the wooden walkway above. One could walk to the shore under the docks; completely unseen. Naturally, the hidden stone walkway was best used in the darkness of night; using it in the daylight ran the risk of being spotted, even under the dock.

In the dead of night, though…when the docks were barely populated to begin with, and when the only real light came from the dim lanterns lining the piers, making it to the shore undetected wasn't too hard.

One by one, the Centralian marines followed the Praetor out onto the stone walkway, and were followed in turn by the rest of the samurai and shamans. The hidden walkway followed along under the pier and took the Ainu/Centralian force under the normally-bustling docks of Daichyi.

It led to a ladder. The samurai and marines climbed up the ladder and found themselves in a storehouse of some sort. There were crates and supplies all over the place, so they had to go up the ladder in small groups.

Lord Fernando stepped out of the storehouse and onto the streets, squinting slightly against the light of the lamps.

Ainu cities were absolutely nothing like their Centralian counterparts. Most of the structures were made of wood with some doors and walls composed of a kind of thick, heavy paper, as opposed to the stone and brick structures of Centralian cities. The buildings also had much more space between them, unlike Centralia's denser, more closed-in cities.

"Could you imagine what would happen if a fire sparked in one of these cities?" Varro, the optio—or _second-in-command_—of Althos's force of marines, asked. He spoke quietly so only the other Centralians could hear him.

"They've built their dwellings in this fashion ever since they stopped living in caves," Lord Fernando replied, careful to keep his voice down. "I'm sure they've learned how to prevent fires, by now."

"_Quiet, back there!_" Niten hissed, shouting in a whisper. The Centralians had been speaking very quietly, but apparently not quietly enough.

Lord Fernando was perfectly happy to opt for total silence. He was sure the samurai would not complain.

Niten led the small force of Ainu and Centralians a little ways down the main street they had emerged onto before taking them through a series of alleyways. At this time of night, there were barely any people roaming the streets, but at the same time they weren't completely deserted.

All it would take was one loose tongue, one person who was in the right place at the right time to see the force of invaders…and Niten's much-needed element of surprise would go up in smoke. News of their presence would reach Kātayō, and the Sun Emperor would subsequently not rest until the walls of the capital were airtight.

No one made a sound for the rest of the little trek.

Daichyi was a city of respectable size; much larger than your average town or village. Seeing as the combined force of samurai and marines could not simply sprint from one end of the city to the other without being noticed, they had to take it slowly. By the time they reached the outer walls of the city, dawn's first light was beginning to glow softly in the east.

The strike force had to get through those walls before sunrise, or else they'd have to hide in the city until nightfall…and that would be nearly impossible, in a bustling port city such as this. So basically, it was 'over the wall by sunrise' or bust.

There were sentries patrolling the walls, so the party couldn't simply wait at the base. They had to hole up at a distance and wait. Niten sent Aito, one of his samurai, ahead of the main party. He gave the younger warrior a coil of rope and instructed him to get on top of the wall and drop the rope for everyone else to climb.

"Is that necessary?" Cicero whispered to the Shogun's deputy. "I'm sure I could use Wind to secure the rope to the top."

"I will not risk using magic here," Niten replied. "There are always mages among the sentries; invoking the elements here runs the risk of them sensing it. It is a chance I will not take, not with what is at stake."

The sky started to brighten to a navy blue, and the stars began to fade away. Lord Fernando clicked his tongue impatiently. He breathed on his hands and fingers to keep them warm. It had been early autumn when Lord Fernando first arrived in the Ainu Empire, and he had spent the majority of the fall in Kakusa re ta.

It wasn't exactly winter, yet, but autumn was beginning to make the transition into colder climes. Mornings and nights were much colder than they used to be. In Centralia, the weather always got consistently worse in the winter; the same appeared to be true for the Ainu Empire.

The Praetor did not look forward to sailing home over the Mare Orientale—which was Centralian for, quite simply, _Eastern Ocean_—in the middle of winter. But he would brave the stormy seas a thousand times over in order to protect his homeland.

It was just starting to get bright enough to see without the aid of the meager light of the distant streetlamps when a rope suddenly fell from the top of the wall, its end dangling just above the ground. Clearly, Aito had succeeded in his task.

"Praetor," Niten nodded to Lord Fernando and pointed at the rope. Clearly, the samurai commander wanted his Centralian counterpart to go first.

The Praetor crept out of hiding and grasped the rope, pulling himself up the height of the walls, one heave at a time. Fernando was grateful that the strength of his prime had not completely deserted him, yet; he managed to scale the walls in less than thirty seconds. The Praetor exchanged nods with Aito before turning around and helping the next map up over the edge.

The samurai, shamans, and marines all shimmied up after him.

Just as he helped up the man after him, Aito grasped the Praetor's shoulder and gestured to the outer side of the wall. Another rope was secured to the wall's lip, which would allow the men to climb safely back down to the ground outside of Daichyi. This made sense—had there only been one rope, everyone would have had to clump up on the ramparts and wait their turn once more to descend.

That would have gotten them spotted for sure.

Lord Fernando did not reach the ground quite as quickly as he wanted to, but he was willing to sacrifice a few seconds if it meant the skin of his palms wouldn't get rubbed off from brush-burn.

Varro hit the dirt right behind him, followed closely by Cato, Marius, Virens, and the rest of the marines. They were interspersed with the shamans and Cicero; Althos was the last to descend before the samurai started coming down.

The last person over the wall was Niten. He didn't use the rope, either; he unfastened the rope so that the sentries wouldn't find it, which forced him to climb down the walls with nothing but his hands and feet…which he somehow managed.

Niten coiled up the rope and slung it over his shoulder, rejoining the strike force. "We must put as much distance as we can between ourselves and Daichyi. The quickest way to the capital, without using the roads, is through the Omasa Hills…three days march, provided we move fast."

"Then we haven't a moment to lose," Lord Fernando declared, adjusting the pack he wore on his back that carried his rations and supplies. Niten turned around and started walking; everyone else falling into step behind him, forging ahead into the forests in the distance.

For the next five days, the small force of Centralian and Ainu warriors trekked deep into the Omasa Hills. The hills themselves weren't very visible to the strike force because they were covered with a thick, dense forest. The only reason they knew they were traversing hills at all was because they'd find themselves walking uphill and downhill several times a day.

The mornings were the worst, temperature-wise. The nights were much colder, but the men were at least able to keep warm as they slept in their bedrolls. In the morning, though—usually before sunrise—they were roused by Niten and Althos. Climbing out of their semi-warm bedrolls and into the chilly, late autumn morning of the Omasa Hills was not exactly an enjoyable experience.

Not one of the men complained, though. That wasn't surprising for the samurai—men of their ilk had that kind of discipline hammered into them at a very early age. The Centralians were just as capable of sucking it up as the samurai, but discipline for them was instilled by their time spent in the legions before joining the marines; it was not a way of life.

And thus, it surprised Lord Fernando when he did not hear any of them complaining. Perhaps they did not want to seem whiny or weak to their Ainu counterparts. The Praetor supposed this mindset was much better than having the marines not care at all what the Ainu thought of them.

Every morning, before sunrise, the men would wake. They would brave the cold temperatures of the early morning, roll up their bedrolls, and secure their weapons. All of them slept in their armor—which was much harder than it looked, but it was one of the first skills a soldier learned after being assigned to a legion.

Lord Fernando would already be awake. He brewed a fresh pot of coffee every morning before Niten and Althos roused the men, much to the Centralians' delight. At first, only the marines had coffee in the morning, but on the second day the Centralians managed to persuade a handful of samurai to try it…and by the fourth day, Lord Fernando had to stop the samurai from crowding him.

Then the men would set off, venturing ever deeper into the woods. They would hike until a short while after sunrise, when they would stop and eat a quick breakfast. Then it was another few hours of steady marching—broken by an even quicker lunch—until evening began to set in.

In a way, the hated cold weather worked to their advantage; had it been summer, the afternoons would have been too hot for the men to continue marching without keeling over from heat exhaustion. In this weather, the early to mid-afternoon period of the day was much more bearable.

It would take torture to get Lord Fernando to speak kindly of cold weather, but—in his mind—he grudgingly admitted that it had its perks.

Throughout the entire trek across the wilderness, Niten was always leading the way. This only made sense—he was, after all, merely retracing the route he had taken to Kātayō when he'd infiltrated the Sun Emperor's palace and rescued the Centralian Praetor.

Though Niten had said the capital was three days' fast march away from Daichyi, the strike force ran into a good amount of rain which turned some of the hillsides into mud walls, slowing them down considerably. They didn't reach Kātayō until the fifth day.

Lord Fernando gazed up at the towering city walls through the cover of the underbrush which he and Niten were hunkered down behind. Samurai could be seen patrolling the ramparts, so the strike force didn't dare make a move against the walls until nightfall.

"How will Aito climb these walls?" the Praetor asked the samurai commander. "They are much larger than those of Daichyi."

"We will not be climbing these walls," Niten shook his head. "We will be using a secret way, known only to a select few under the Shogun's command. I'm afraid you and your men will have to be blindfolded."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are a foreigner, Praetor," Niten said flatly. "If your Centralian capital city had a secret entrance known only to your royal family and a few trusted subordinates…would you willingly give up its location to a force of Ainu?"

Lord Fernando thought about it for a few moments before falling into agreement with the samurai. "No, I don't believe I would," the Praetor admitted. "Very well. As long as it gets us inside the city, do what you must."

The two leaders moved away from their observation spot and headed back to the glade where their men were holed up, waiting to move. It was late afternoon, so they would have to wait for another few hours until they could use the cover of darkness.

Lord Fernando pulled Althos and Varro aside, informing them of Niten's intentions to keep the location of the secret entrance hidden from the Centralians. Fortunately, they accepted this decision without even questioning it, as Lord Fernando had.

"Smart of them, not even revealing that kind of knowledge to allies," Varro remarked. "It's that kind of thinking that keeps kingdoms alive."

The men forced themselves to remain patient as the day gradually made its transition into night. Even after dusk, Niten refused to move on the walls, waiting for total darkness to take hold. He made his move not long before midnight, issuing orders to the other samurai and shamans under his command.

As Lord Fernando had counseled the Shogun many days ago, the strike force splintered into smaller groups—three or four men each. Each group had only one or two marines—having anymore Centralians than that in a group would seem much too suspicious.

Though the marines had no idea where they were going, the samurai must have been briefed ahead of time. They obviously knew the capital city inside and out, so the Centralians were more than willing to simply trust them to get them to safe places on the other side.

Throughout the rest of the night, Niten sent one group after another out into the darkness, waiting around twenty or so minutes between groups. Little by little, the number of warriors in the glade dwindled until there were only a handful left.

Lord Fernando had stressed earlier on that under no circumstances should Niten, Althos, Varro, or Cicero be in the same group, as they were the most important figures in this entire operation. Without Niten at the head, the entire attack would lose much of its cohesion, and losing Althos or Varro would cause disorganization in the ranks of the marines. Having any of them in the same group would be much too risky.

And Cicero was separated because he was the most important player in this game of war. As the only Centralian mage present in the Ainu Empire, he was the only one who could directly try to cleanse Zamorak's taint from the Sun Emperor—the Ainu shamans, due to their beliefs, would not be able to do so themselves.

Due to the need to keep Cicero safe, he went with Rei, the oldest and most experienced of the Itoan shamans.

Lord Fernando went last. He followed Niten into the darkness—followed in turn by a samurai named Mitsuyo, and Virens; one of the marines. When they reached the city walls, Lord Fernando and Virens allowed Mitsuyo to tie small strips of cloth over their eyes, completely blocking out their vision.

The two samurai led the Centralians, making sure they didn't walk into or trip over anything in their temporary blindness. Lord Fernando had no idea where he was being taken or what his surroundings were. He was certain of one thing; Niten was leading him through the woods, not to the base of the city walls.

He could hear the crinkling of dead leaves being trod underfoot, could feel the light breeze of cold air whistling through the trees, could hear the sounds of the city in the near distance…

He heard someone knock on something that sounded wooden—a log, or a tree, perhaps—followed closely by a soft shifting sound. Suddenly, the ground became firm. The Praetor realized that he was walking on stone. The breeze was gone, as well, which meant that he was no longer in the outdoors.

He took another step, and was surprised when his foot fell forward before hitting stone.

_A staircase_.

The stairs spiraled down into the ground until they stopped abruptly, and the Praetor found himself being marched down a straight path. A tunnel, no doubt. At one point, he heard running water and smelled something…unpleasant. More walking, then some more stairs…and then a ladder.

Lord Fernando reached up blindly until he found purchase on the next rung, pulling himself up. He did this until he reached the top and emerged into some sort of building. He briefly wondered if this was their destination, but the moment Mitsuyo—who was bringing up the rear—reached the top of the ladder, Niten promptly pushed the Praetor outside.

The two samurai led their Centralian comrades through the streets for another short period of time before Niten allowed the blindfolds to be removed.

Lord Fernando blinked several times, his eyes adjusting to the illumination of the streetlamps. The lamps themselves weren't really all that bright, but after being blinded for the past…Lord Fernando believed it may have been at least an hour…after not being able to see for that amount of time, even a dim light seemed like a sunburst.

Lord Fernando could see the Ainuin Palace, perched on top of the manmade pyramid-like structure in the centre of the city, towering over everything else. He could also hear the soft crash of waves coming from the nearby harbor.

Niten kept to the smaller side streets, not wanting to risk encountering any strangers on the more heavily-traveled roads. He headed straight into what looked like an inn, instructing the others to remain outside. They waited for a minute or so until Niten emerged with a room key in hand.

"We will use the back entrance," he said, gesturing for the others to follow. He led the other three men around to the back of the inn and entered through the open doorway. Lord Fernando followed him down a short hallway and down a flight of stairs into a basement-like floor. There were a handful of rooms down here—the room key which Niten held went to one of them. He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

The four men headed into the room, closing the door behind them. The room itself was nothing special—two beds, a flickering oil lamp, and a small mirror set on one of the walls. Lord Fernando's initial opinion of the room drastically changed, however, when Niten pulled back one of the rugs and used a knife to pry out a small piece of the floor.

He curled his fingers around the gap he had created and pulled. With a dull _thunk,_ an entire square of the wooden floor detached itself, revealing a dark shaft leading into a good-sized chamber down below.

One by one, the men all clambered down the shaft and into the underground chamber. Niten came last, fitting the hatchway back over the mouth of the shaft, making the floor overhead whole once more.

Mitsuyo took out a small piece of flint and used it to light a candle, which he in turn used to light the four large oil lamps set in each corner of the chamber. The lamps flared to life, revealing a drab, gray room. The walls were made of rock and mortar, as was the ground. Other than a table with blade oil and sharpening stones, and the four lamps, the room itself was bare. Clearly the occupants were meant to bring their own supplies.

"This is one of our saferooms," Niten explained. "The Shogun had this room and others like it constructed in secret ever since the Emperor starting acting strangely. I do not know what purpose he had in mind for them, but now it would seem they have finally found use…"

"So, uh…what do we do now?" Virens asked as he spread his bedroll out on the ground.

"We wait," the Praetor replied. "Until the signal comes, we wait."


	18. Chapter 18: Unsettling Omens

Chapter Eighteen: Unsettling Omens

Avis opened his mouth to swear. Normally Jerrod would force him into a sparring bout whenever he uttered profanity; the Cleric said that he had to be at least thirteen years old to use those words. But this time, despite still being a little over one year short of his mentor's cut-off age, the boy couldn't help himself.

The reason he was going to swear was because there was a giant fist of super-compressed dirt rushing straight towards him. But before the young Mahjarrat even had the chance to speak, the earthen fist crashed into him, sending him flying.

Avis slammed into a tree and slid down to the ground, pinpoints of light dancing before his eyes. When he wiped his nose, his hand came away bloody.

"What in hellfire was that?" Jerrod thrust his face into that of his pupil, his fiery temper blazing in his eyes. "Unless standing there like a half-brained lout was what you were planning ahead of time?"

"I froze, alright?" Avis picked himself up, spitting a globule of blood out of his mouth. "I can't do it. I just can't do it!"

"You _can_ do it," Jerrod straightened up and stepped back, taking up an offensive position once more. He gestured for his pupil to do the same. "You may learn many times faster than a normal mage, but that still doesn't mean you're not going to have to bleed to get to the top. Now assume your stance."

"You don't understand!" Avis exclaimed. "We've been at it for a week, trying to spar with Earth, and I can barely throw a handful of pebbles! At least with Water I was able to master the most basic forms, by now, but Earth is…it's just…it's _different_."

Jerrod let out a quiet sigh and relaxed his stance. "_Interesting_…" he murmured, momentarily losing himself in thought. He then returned to his senses, saying to Avis, "Go and get a fire started. We'll eat dinner early, today."

For almost every single day since Jerrod had brought Avis to the Virid Swamp, he had worked the boy to the bone throughout the morning and afternoon, stopping only for a small lunch break. But the past few months of Avis's life had comprised of little more than sparring and sleeping.

So when Jerrod suddenly stopped training in the middle of the afternoon and basically said that they would take the rest of the day off…well, it was a little surprising.

Still, Avis did not question why Jerrod wanted to break for the rest of the day. He decided to just be grateful for the unusual change of routine and leave it at that.

While Jerrod ventured out into the woods to get their dinner, Avis gathered twigs and dead branches for the fire. After he accumulated a good armful of firewood, he returned to their quasi-campsite.

Avis had watched his teacher use Fire to light campfires in the past. Usually all the Cleric would do was to shower the dry leaves and kindling with sparks, which would in turn light the rest of the wood. When Avis lit the fire, however, he was forced to use a piece of flint and a steel ring, like a common man without the ability to use magic. During his earlier days of traveling with the Cleric, Avis always used to crouch by the fire, hold his hands over the kindling, and try his utmost to invoke the fourth element.

It wasn't like he was trying to make a wave of fire to burn a forest down—all he needed was a few measly little sparks. But no matter how hard he tried, he just wasn't able to pull it off. Had he been a human mage, all he'd have to do is draw from the power of a Fire runestone, or—in Jerrod's case—an elemental staff, fueling the spell with his own energy. But he wasn't a human mage. He was Mahjarrat. The power was already inside him…and unless it was Awakened, he would never be able to invoke it. It occurred to him that perhaps all Mahjarrat had to undergo their own personal journey to Awaken their powers.

Then again…none of the other Mahjarrat had spent their entire lives thus far believing they were Human. Had Avis grown up the Mahjarrat way—whatever that entailed—he doubted he would have been forced to travel to the elemental temples to jump start his powers. After all, he hadn't needed to visit the Air Temple; he had developed the powers of that particular element on his own, due to his environment and lifestyle.

Failing once again to conjure any Fire, Avis gave a quiet sigh of resignation and pulled out the flint and steel, striking the metal ring several times against the rock, producing a small shower of sparks. It always took several tries before any of the sparks actually caught in the kindling.

When they finally did, Avis bent down almost all the way to the ground and started blowing on the sparks from the side, giving the nascent fire the oxygen it needed to survive. The flames quickly spread to the smaller branches after several puffs of air.

The pale-skinned boy stopped feeding the fire before he got light-headed and crawled over to a nearby boulder, resting back on the rock. He stretched out his legs and pulled off his boots, resting his feet close to the fire's warmth.

Soon, Jerrod returned from the woods. He carried a pair of dead rabbits and a handful of small, jade-green leaves. "We're in for a treat," the Cleric said, dropping one of the leaves into Avis's lap before sitting on the opposite side of the fire. "Found some Northerner's Weed out there—very good for the belly. Used to grow in every ditch, once upon a time, the old folks would say…unfortunately, it's become something of a rare find, these days."

Avis sniffed the leaf and tasted a small piece of it. It tasted slightly peppery, but still managed to leave a refreshing aftertaste.

Jerrod reached into his satchel and pulled out the rest of his herbs and cooking gear. He fashioned a cooking pot out of Earth and filled it with water, which he had extracted from a nearby stream, keeping it hovering around one of his hands until he had completed the pot.

Jerrod drew a small knife and set about skinning and preparing the two rabbits for the stew which he was about to make. He cooked the rabbits while the water heated up. The water was ready by the time the Cleric was done, and he started adding the appropriate seasonings.

Avis watched his teacher prepare dinner. Once the stew was finished, the Cleric filled his two wooden bowls, passing one of them to his pupil. Jerrod did not speak while he prepared dinner, nor did he speak while he ate. He had come to love dinnertime during his earlier travels with Athellenas. In that regard, one of the things he had always abhorred from those days was when he was interrupted in the middle of their evening meal. And it had happened more often than he would have liked.

Avis did not know why he did not dislike his teacher. Jerrod was usually sarcastic and gruff with him, he was ruthless during their sparring bouts, and he worked the boy to the bone every single day. He had even broken Avis's jaw during one of those practice duels. Of course, although he was ruthless and demanding, he was not cruel. And unlike Saradomin, Jerrod seemed to care about him more as an actual person—not as a mere tool to use against Chaos.

But regardless of his strengths and weaknesses, Avis had to admit that Jerrod was an excellent cook. Dinnertime was quickly becoming _his_ favorite part of the day, too.

After he finished his stew, Jerrod took out his small, shiny wooden Badb pipe and lit it, taking a puff of the sweet-smelling pipeweed smoke. The pipe had once belonged to Farrah al-Ibn—the old Menaphite who had raised Avis from infancy. Farrah had given Jerrod the pipe as a parting gift when the Cleric had gone to Ullek to get Avis away from Thammaron's hordes.

Jerrod rested back against a tree, setting his empty bowl aside, turning his gaze back to his pupil. Then, at long last, he began to speak of what had been on his mind, earlier. "Elemental magic is the most powerful and basic form of magic," he said to Avis, pausing to take another puff from his pipe. "A mage is able to use and master all four elements. However, as you know, each person has his or her own natural element; an element that is in tune with their soul and personality. It is always easier for a mage to use his natural element than it is for him to use any of the other three. But there is a flipside to this—each element has its opposite. Much like North is opposite to South, or East to West."

"So a person has an even tougher time mastering the opposite of his natural element?" Avis asked, opening his mouth and speaking even before he realized it.

"I'm still going to remind you that you interrupted me, _again,_" Jerrod grunted. "But I'll leave it at that because you are correct. My natural element, as you know, is Water. Fluidity, adaptation, flexibility. I didn't have too much trouble mastering Wind and Earth…but I had a devil of a time trying to master Fire."

"If your natural element is Water, why do you use Fire so often?" Avis queried, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Because, as an element, it posed the biggest challenge to me. If I used only the elements I was comfortable with, I would be crippling myself as a mage. It would be like exercising only your strongest muscles, while leaving your weakest to atrophy," Jerrod replied. He then hesitated for a moment before adding, "Also because it's bright and it burns things."

Avis's brow creased in a slight frown. He could never really tell when his mentor was joking.

Jerrod took another puff from his pipe, blowing a perfect smoke circle into the air. He watched the smoke circle rise and disperse for a few seconds before continuing. "Neither Wind, Water, nor Earth are your natural elements, as we've seen, which means your element is Fire. Not surprising, considering what—_who_ you are," the Cleric remarked. "What makes this interesting is that, even though your natural element is Fire, you did not have too much trouble with Water, Fire's opposite. I believe you are having trouble with Earth because of your childhood. Fire may be your natural element, but your life in Ullek developed your proficiency not with Fire, but with Wind. And Earth is _Wind's_ opposite."

"O-_kay_…" Avis cleared his throat, mentally sorting out what the Cleric had just said. "I can't hurl rocks because I spent my childhood blowing wind. Got it. So, how do we…uh, fix that?"

"It all has to do with the style, with the nature of the element," Jerrod explained. "Your natural element is Fire. I've observed your fighting style; quick, relentless, aggressive strikes. Perfect for your element. You grew up as a thief, however. Your lifestyle required you to be formless. Too fast to pin down. Evading your enemies and tiring them down was how you survived."

"I guess that makes sense…"

"But consider Earth, now. Earth is everything Air is _not,_" Jerred reiterated. "Earth is solid. It is stubborn, unyielding, resolute. You've lived as a thief for too long, boy. If you want to master Earth, you're going to have to learn to hold your ground when necessary."

"Holding my ground?" Avis arched an eyebrow—a habit he had started to pick up from his teacher. "Are you saying I have to become hopelessly stubborn to levitate rocks?"

"It is an issue of confidence," Jerrod clarified. "You need confidence to master the elements. You yourself said, not two hours ago, that you could not use Earth. That translates to, _No, Jerrod, I don't have the confidence I need,_" the Cleric spoke in a mockingly high-pitched voice, earning a dirty look from his pupil. "You don't need to remake your personality to master Earth…you simply need to discover more of it."

The Cleric hesitated, taking several more puffs from his pipe. After he gently exhaled another lungful of smoke, he said, "Perhaps I have been going about your training in the wrong manner. Perhaps it was a mistake to have you start out by dueling with Earth. You'd managed with Water, so I'd hoped…" the Cleric then shrugged and straightened back up against his tree. "Well, in this case, you'll have to learn to crawl before you can walk."

"Fun."

"Very fun. Now if I were you—and I thank the Gods every day that I am _not_—I would try and get some rest," Jerrod exhaled another breath of smoke. "We'll be quickening our pace, tomorrow. Eight leagues east of here is a town called Agoras. I know a blacksmith there, and we can get you fitted with a proper blade. If we keep our feet light and swift, we should be able to make it there by dinnertime."

Avis took this news in stride. Basically, his mentor was saying that they were going to be walking all day tomorrow. Walking was good. Walking all day meant no sparring, which in turn meant no more bruises or broken bones, for the next day at least. His jaw still ached every once in a while, an uncomfortable reminder of the time Jerrod had shattered it with the pommel of his sword.

"G'night," Avis murmured as he curled up on the ground near the fire, laying down his pack and using it as a pillow. He was asleep within half a minute of closing his eyes. This was yet another skill the boy was honing during his travels—the ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime. Not that he had much practice falling asleep at any time of the day, however; Jerrod kept pushing him hard all day long.

The Cleric listened to the sounds of the forests. It was the ides of Novtumber—still mid-autumn—so the crickets and the other critters of the woods had not yet gone into their winter sleep. Soon, the chirruping and skittering were joined by the sound of Avis's breathing as he sank deeper into his sleep.

The corner of Jerrod's mouth twitched upwards in a faint half-grin as he reclined back against his tree. He breathed out another puff of smoke, tightening his mouth and trying for another smoke ring. He did not quite get it, though, and by then the pipeweed in the bowl was finished. The older man gave a weary sigh and tapped the residue out of the chamber and stowed the pipe back into one of his inner pockets.

This was one of the Cleric's favorite parts of the day and night, after dinnertime, of course. After the boy was fast asleep, the best thing for Jerrod to do was relax—something he had become quite adept at in the decade he had spent living as a hermit. The Cleric gave a quiet sigh, watching the fire dwindle down into smoldering embers. He held up his hand and drew upon the elemental energy of his nearby staff, conjuring a small flame over his palm. He flexed his hand, weaving the mote of fire in between and around his fingers. The idea of burning himself did not even cross his thoughts as he absent-mindedly twirled the fire.

For a while, the Cleric made no sound, remained perfectly still. The only movement about him was the diminished firelight reflected against his stormy gray eyes. Starting to feel the chill of the night with the absence of the fire's heat, Jerrod reached back and pulled his cowl over his head, casting his face into shadow.

The aging man lost himself in memories of old adventures and battles, scrapes with the monsters that dwelled beyond the River Salve, beyond the Wilderness borders. The Cleric rarely allowed his thoughts to wander on such tangents, but every once in a while he could not help himself. He thought back on the wild, bloody mess that had been his childhood and youth, his days of living off the land while traveling with Athellenas. The two of them had made quite a team—the vast majority of their exploits were not known to the common populace…and they probably never would be. Some secrets were best left as secrets.

Jerrod had devoted his life to the Church of Saradomin, and to the Centralian Empire. Together with Athellenas, he had neutralized threat after threat, always in a state of constant vigilance, protecting Centralia's borders, as well as the welfare of the Church. And he had done a magnificent job of it, too. _Jerrod the Lightbringer_ was still a name that was known throughout the lands. And so, it sometimes confused him when he looked for the pride he had in these accomplishments…and instead found emptiness.

The Cleric had no wife, no children. He did not remember his family—they had been killed during the destruction of Harrow's Stead, the town Jerrod had been born in, at the hands of the Mahjarrat Hazeel. He was raised to adolescence on Entrana, trained in the ways of the Paladin when his magical prowess was discovered. From there, it was on to the second act of his life; his and Athellenas's self-declared war against darkness, which ended after he went on to become the youngest ever Priori of the Church. Later came the clash of beliefs with his fellow Priori, the disagreements, the rifts…and then the exile. Eleven years spent living in the Virid Swamp...

There was the sound of skittering, coming from behind the Cleric. He did not have to turn around, for its source—a bushy-tailed red squirrel—scampered past the middle-aged man, sniffing around his satchel, no doubt able to smell the herbs that were being kept inside.

_A strange thing,_ Jerrod mused to himself,_ to do as much as I have, to see as much as I have seen… And yet still feel a measure of dissatisfaction. In a way, even a common farmer with a loving family…even a common farmer has still experienced more than me._

Jerrod arched an eyebrow at the squirrel, who was still pawing at his satchel, searching for food. "What about you, eh?" he asked the squirrel. "Do _you_ think I've wasted my life?"

The red squirrel actually broke off its search to glance at the Cleric for a moment. It then seemed to give up trying to rifle through the satchel, skittering over to the pack that Avis was using as a pillow. Jerrod followed its progress, and as he glanced at the boy's sleeping form, his earlier thoughts simply seemed to melt away.

The past no longer mattered. No, his life had _not_ been a waste, a struggle against futility. Regardless of how he felt about his prior deeds, the Cleric had now been given a purpose. According to the Prophecy, Avis was supposed to end this seemingly-endless war. If that prophecy was accurate, the world's fate rested with the boy…and the boy's fate rested squarely with the Cleric. This was the culmination of all the experiences of his youth—after all, who would be better suited for the task of training a Mahjarrat than a man who had quite literally spent his entire life thus far fighting darkness? And even more important; a man who had spent his entire life thus far fighting darkness...and who had_ survived_.

"You're getting sloppy, old man…" Jerrod murmured. "And you lecture the boy for not having control over himself… Perhaps you should follow your own teachings."

The Cleric chuckled to himself, rising to his feet. He stared into the embers for another few seconds before lifting his booted foot and stomping them out.

* * *

Avis opened his eyes to darkness, shaken from his dreams by his mentor. The boy blinked several times, trying to will away the weariness. He noticed the absence of the usual faint daylight and grumbled quietly as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Why're we getting up so early? It's not even dawn, yet…"

"It's sunrise, actually," Jerrod corrected his pupil, sliding his pots into his satchel. "Clouds are blocking out the sun. Storm's coming…big one, by the looks of it. Could even be unnatural."

"Unnatural storms?" the boy remarked. "Can't be a good sign."

The Cleric had to agree. His thoughts turned to Athellenas, wondered how the Centralian Warmaster was faring. He had heard tales of disturbing happenings in the Hallowlands to the east, but nothing more than rumors and gossip. It was high time he learned what was happening in the world around him—his time spent training Avis had put them in a state of isolation. Perhaps it would soon be time to break that pattern, especially since their current route took them very close to the River Salve, Centralia's eastern border.

It was not until long after sunrise that the daylight was able to penetrate the clouds, lightening the black veil in the sky to a dark shade of grey. Avis and Jerrod hiked through the forests for several hours straight, pausing only for a quick lunch in a glade they happened to pass through. By mid-afternoon, they emerged onto a road—a dirt road, obviously; paved roads existed only in the cities.

The road was devoid of travelers. Again, this was nothing out of the ordinary; the Stellantae Province, which encompassed the northeastern reaches of the empire, was rather lightly populated. The only real population centers in the province were its capital, Saranthium, and the smaller city of Avarrocka. The rest of the province's inhabitants comprised of hunters and trappers, woodsmen, and a handful of what had to be the hardiest farmers this side of Tethys.

Still, though…considering this road ran to Avarrocka, Jerrod found some small measure of surprise when they came across no other travelers after another few hours. The route was deserted.

Overhead, the clouds hung heavy in the sky, almost as if they were about to collapse and fall to the earth. Far to the east, the clouds looked almost black in comparison to the grey veil over Stellantae. Faint flickers of lightning could be spotted if one was patient enough to gaze closely at the horizon for a short while.

The more Jerrod glanced at the weather, the more it unnerved him. His earlier guess that the storm was unnatural had been just that; a guess. But now he was beginning to think that he had actually been right. And, though he was no fortune-teller, he did not need a master of divination to tell him that unnatural storms probably did not mean anything good.

It had to be getting close to evening by the time Avis and Jerrod drew near to Agoras. It was always more difficult to tell the time on days as cloudy as this, but Cleric was still able to make a good guess.

"We'll be reaching Agoras within the hour," Jerrod said. "We'll head to one of the inns and see about acquiring a room for the next two or three nights. Now, this is our first time in a population center since Aeriose…you remember the old drill?"

"Everyone who lives there is a Zamorackian spy who wants to gut me in my sleep, so don't wander off by myself and let Jerrod do all the talking, because Jerrod knows best," Avis sighed, reciting the exact words Jerrod had said to him before they had entered Aeriose, down in the southeast, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Would you like to hold my hand, too?"

Jerrod aimed a cuff at Avis's ear, but the boy brought his left arm up out of reflex, batting the Cleric's hand away. Even as his hand was knocked aside, the Cleric whipped his other hand around and seized Avis's wrist. He jerked the boy forward and spun him around, wrapping an arm around his neck in a chokehold, holding him fast for a few seconds…then he released the boy, but not before landing a powerful flick to the temple.

Avis sucked in a breath through his teeth, massaging the sore spot on his left temple, falling back into step with his mentor. "Did you really have to do that?"

"No," Jerrod answered evenly. He then shrugged, adding, "But you gave me lip. You do realize that if you give me lip, I am obligated to inflict some form of pain in response?"

"I think I figured that out by the end of the first week," Avis nodded.

"Aye, that you did," Jerrod rumbled with laughter, recalling with some measure of amusement Avis's first days of training in the Virid Swamp. Sure, perhaps he had failed to completely pacify the boy's more rebellious streaks…but he damn well _had_ taught him a thing or two about fighting for his life. Even now, the Cleric was reasonably confident that his pupil could easily outmatch the vast majority of magic-users in Gielinor with the sheer, raw energy that was pent up inside him.

And they were only halfway there. Until Jerrod could devise a way to make Avis face his enemies head-on, the boy would continue to struggle with the use of Earth…and he had not even been Awakened at the Fire Temple, yet. Although Jerrod suspected that Avis would not have any trouble with Fire; it was, after all, the young Mahjarrat's natural element. But still…he had not been completely Awakened yet, and time was running against them.

The town of Agoras was built in an open meadow, next to a large lake. Farmers tended to the lands surrounding the actual town—it was a combination of the wares of these farmers and the goods yielded from the lake that kept this town fed. Jerrod also believed they dabbled in the lumber business, and their metalworking was pretty satisfactory as well.

Teacher and student emerged from the thick of the woods into the outskirts of town, which was simply open farmland, dotted with the occasional house. Or, rather, dotted with the occasional ruin that had _used_ to be a house. They had emerged from the woods onto the crest of a gently-sloped ridge, which gave them a fair view of Agoras and the surrounding acres of farmlands. They could see the columns of smoke still rising into the sky—most of the farmhouses had been destroyed, and a few of the actual farms had been put to the torch as well.

The smell of burned crops still hung heavy in the air. Though the clouds overhead continued to thicken, the wind had yet to pick up, so the smell was here to stay.

Jerrod and Avis stopped dead in their tracks as they took in the sight of the devastated farmlands. "What happened here…? Were they attacked by bandits?" Avis murmured quietly, if only to break the silence. Getting no response, he looked up at Jerrod. "Master? What do you think?"

The Cleric's glance flitted upwards toward the storm clouds again, then back down to the fields. "I am at a loss," the older man admitted, absentmindedly scratching his beard. "Bandits in this region are not exactly uncommon, but they usually stick to fleecing merchants on the roads, as we have already seen. Raiding a homestead would be bold for them. Attacking a town?" Jerrod sighed, shaking his head. "No. Agoras is small, but it is not _that_ small. And it possesses walls. But then that begs the question: if bandits are not responsible for this…who is?"

There was only one way to find out.

Saying nothing more, Jerrod and Avis set off down the slopes of the ridge into the fields. It took a little less than an hour's walk to reach the town's walls, moving at a brisk pace. They continued, unmolested, until they reached the town gate, which was shut. Unusual to have a main gate closed during the daytime…but the attacks of the unknown assailants, the ones who had burned the homesteads…that was rather unusual, as well.

"_Hold fast!_" a booming voice, layered with the smooth, almost nasal Forest Accent, which graced most who lived in the northeast. A flaxen-haired man stood on the ramparts over the main gate, longbow in hand and drawn, arrow nocked and aimed straight at the Cleric. Even under the helm that he wore, his drooping mustache was still visible. "That is far enough, stranger."

Jerrod exhaled sharply through his nose, subtly tightening his grip on his staff. In his voice, however, he betrayed nothing of his inner tension. "The hospitality of Agoras appears to have lessened since last I came," the older man remarked.

The mustachioed man on the ramparts did not lower his bow. "When last you came, our citizens were not being slaughtered by creatures of darkness," he retorted. "I am sure you noticed the subtle differences in the landscape, when you crested the ridge?"

Jerrod gave a grunt to the affirmative. "I noticed," he replied, making a note of the archer's words for future reference. "Your caution is well-understood, but, in this case, unnecessary. We have business in your town."

There was another hesitation from the archer. He said something, but it was too quiet for Jerrod to pick up his words. A second man appeared on the ramparts, and the two archers conversed for a brief moment. The first man did not take his gaze off the Cleric, to his credit. After the second man retreated, the mustachioed archer addressed Jerrod once again.

"So you say… What business, then, would you have within our walls? Speak quickly."

Jerrod knew that the guard could have simply told him to bugger off, so the fact that he was actually taking some measure of interest in the Cleric's motives was a good sign. If he allowed them entry, it would save Jerrod and Avis the effort of having to sneak in later at night.

"I am known to your blacksmith, a man named Reyton," Jerrod explained. "I would solicit his service in acquiring a new blade."

"You travel from the direction of Avarrocka; why would you not procure a new weapon for yourself in the city?" the archer still did not sound entirely convinced, but it was honest questioning, now, in the place of blunt skepticism.

Fortunately, Jerrod had an honest answer for that question, too. "Reyton once served in the Legions as a weapons master. I would trust him over a stranger in a large city."

Another silence.

Then, "Very well, you may enter. Be warned, however; this will be reported to our Magistrate, and he will confirm your claims with Reyton. If there is dispute…there will be consequences."

"Gratitude," Jerrod bowed his head slightly in thanks as the archer signaled for several unseen men to open the gate, which they did, laying bare the way into Agoras. The older man glanced down at Avis, meeting the boy's gaze. "Well done on the whole 'keeping your mouth shut' routine. Well done, indeed. Now let us go…warm beds and a hot meal await."

And with that, teacher and student fell back into step with one another and crossed the threshold of the main gate, paying no attention as it boomed shut behind them, sealing Agoras off from the outside world once more.


	19. Chapter 19: First Step

Chapter Nineteen: First Step

Osman, King of Centralia, wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose, waiting with a limited measure of patience for the man standing on the oration platform to quiet down. The man had reacted rather unfavorably to the King's conscription order. Normally, the Legions comprised solely of volunteers, but the King's order was requiring the Provinces to supply a certain amount of men, aged fourteen through fifty, for conscription into the military. It was the first time a draft had been instituted in the Empire for over three centuries, and the Proconsuls were not taking it lying down.

Gaius Mercatus Ausonius, Proconsul of the Mons Tulliae Province of the far west, was the name of the man on the oration platform. He was not the first proconsul to make an appearance in Tethys, and King Osman feared he would not be the last… Still, even if every single official from the provinces made their audience here, protesting the draft, King Osman's stance would not change. The conscription order was here to stay.

Once Lord Mercato's seemingly endless river of rhetoric paused for a moment, King Osman raised his hand, calling for silence, to which the Tulliaean—now _there's_ a mouthful—Proconsul grudgingly obliged. "Lord Mercato, your arguments fall not on deaf ears, but you have not in any way been singled out. All the other provinces are subject to the same draft requirements as you, under Imperial authority."

"With respect, Your Majesty, many of our young men have already volunteered for service in the Legions; binding us with conscriptions such as these will end up-"

"With respect, _Proconsul,_" King Osman laid an emphasis on the older man's title, "the Legions need all the healthy men they can get. The Menaphites are defeated. The Icyene are defeated. The Dark One's attention is fixed upon this very city," he stabbed his finger down onto the armrest of his chair, leaning forward so that he was sitting on the edge. "If the Provinces do not contribute, if the Legions are understrength, you will be a Proconsul no longer, for your lands and your peoples will cease to exist. The order of conscription is not going away."

The Proconsul of Mons Tulliae had nothing more to say. Well, no, that was not entirely accurate; King Osman could plainly see that Lord Mercato had plenty more that he wanted to say…but uttering it would probably have resulted in him losing his head. They were things best spoken in the privacy of his own halls; not in the Forum of Tethys. And so, Lord Mercato ceased his argument. The Proconsul gave a quick bow and stepped off the platform. "I will take my leave, then. _Ave!_" he clasped his fist to his heart and bowed, turned on his heel, strode out of the assembly chamber, leaving Osman alone in the Forum, save for the pair of Old Guardsmen who stood at constant attention behind him.

The King exhaled through his nose, massaging his temples for a short while. Before the Proconsul had received his audience, Osman had presided over a convention of the Forum, and dealing with a chamber full of consuls was one of the most exhausting trappings of royalty. King Lionel, his late father, had been quite adept at dealing with the consuls, and Osman had no idea how he had managed it. Even after his father's death, King Osman had presided over them with a great deal of assistance from Iulus Fernandos, the King's appointed Praetor.

But Lord Fernando was no longer here. Osman had sent him east, to the Empire Where the Sun Rises, to secure the aid of the Ainu. That had been nearly three months ago, in the summer. Now, it was well into the autumn, but the King had received no word from the East. He was beginning to fear that some misfortune had befallen the Praetor, but he had no way of finding out. But if he ordered Fleetmaster Straume to send another ship to the far east, at this time of the year, it would be would be taken by the winter storms. He would have to be patient—one of those kingly virtues that he had not quite mastered, yet.

The King supposed it was about time he started getting used to performing his duties on his own. When King Lionel had died, three years ago, Osman had ascended to the throne at only fifteen years of age. Ever since then, the overwhelming task of running an empire had been a burden shared between him and his closest advisors. Lord Fernando had rarely left his side, and the Warmaster had always made himself readily available. But ever since that fateful day, back in the Spring, when Athellenas had returned to the capital with news of the destruction of Ephyrn… He had to release his two closest advisors. He was more alone than he had ever been before.

Finally, the King stood up. "Macros, Laertes," he nodded to the two Old Guardsmen, who saluted him as he brushed past and strode through the door set behind his chair. They then followed him out into the corridor, which eventually led to the entrance chamber. Osman exchanged nods and other pleasantries with the remaining consuls, making his way out across the greens to the Citadel. Macros and Laertes accompanied him into the entrance hall, but no further, as was their instructions.

Osman proceeded through the large double doors at the far end of the hall, which opened up into the throne room. His private study was situated behind his throne—most people never even knew of its existence, and only a handful of those who did had ever set foot in the room. It was one of Osman's islands of calm and order in a sea of chaos and politics.

If a person were to get a glimpse of the study, they would not think it belonged to a king. It was a simple room—the walls were all lined with shelves of books and scrolls. There was a mahogany desk towards the back of the study with an oil lamp on the side, as well as a quill and ink well, a pile of books, and several sheaves of paper. Behind the desk was the study's only window, which provided illumination during the day.

A young, black-haired, green-eyed woman sat behind the desk, reading the King's copy of _Ex Nihilo,_ which was an anthology of the journals of Pendragon, the founder and first king of Centralia. She wore her black hair in a braid, entwined with thin silver cord. Her name was Aurelia, niece of Volesus Gellius Cinna. Lord Gellio was Proconsul of Karamja, and he had sent his niece several years ago to live in the capital, believing it best she grew accustomed to living on the mainland—after all, when she got married, she would not be living on Karamja.

Osman had met Lady Aurelia over a year ago on his way to the Plaza. She had miscalculated the amount of money needed to buy a basket of apples from one of the vendors and ended up short. The King had then stepped in and paid for the fruit himself, after calming the vendor—who nearly fainted. After encountering her several more times in the Plaza, the King instructed the Old Guard to grant her access to the Royal Palace, and he had been enjoying frequent, regular visits from her ever since. He had a couple ways of taking his mind off the pressures of politics and war, but Aurelia was his only _living_ distraction.

The green-eyed woman glanced up from the book, arching a questioning eyebrow at the King as he entered the room. "That seemed to take longer than expected," she remarked. Then her eyes widened slightly, as if she'd just remembered something of extreme import, and she sprang out of her chair, adding, "Oh, gracious me, where are my manners? _Your Majesty,_" she bent down in an elaborate, overdramatic bow.

Most individuals could not get away with pulling a stunt like that without getting flogged. Then again, most individuals would not even _dare_ express sarcasm in front of the King. Athellenas and Lord Fernando were probably the only other two people who could speak like that to Osman, but neither of them ever did. He simply did not have that kind of playful relationship with those older men.

The King's face flushed a moderate shade of red as he closed the door. "You need not bow like that every time I enter the room…" he muttered, removing the heavy black overcoat that he wore over his indoor clothes. "That is for formal affairs in the public, which this is clearly _not_. Come, you'll restrict your breathing, bowing in a dress like that."

"I confess, I have reasons twofold for doing so today. First, out of respect for your great-great-great—etcetera, etcetera—grandfather, Pendragon the Unifier, whose journals are proving to be quite a remarkable read," she nodded down to the copy of Ex Nihilo, the corners of her mouth curving in a wry grin. "And second…well, how many _other_ people get to see the great King of Centralia flush redder than a cherry in the company of a woman? The answer would be _no one,_ which makes it a privilege. And I enjoy being privileged."

Osman hesitated as he draped his coat behind his chair. For a moment, he tried picturing Lady Aurelia in the robes of a Queen, but he quickly banished the image from his mind before his face could redden any further. "You are impossible," he declared, sitting down behind his desk, gesturing for Lady Aurelia to do the same. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few seconds, trying to allow himself to relax the tensions still brimming in his muscles from his time spent in the assembly chamber. When his eyes opened, they did so with a faint gleam, and he gave a light grin of his own. "Perhaps I should simply send _you_ to deal with the consuls… I believe they would find themselves quite incapable of matching you."

"You do not give yourself enough credit," Lady Aurelia said. "Could a weakling have managed to make the Provinces comply with a conscription order for the first time in centuries?"

"I am lucky that they have," Osman sighed. "Had any of them outright refused to cooperate… I cannot afford to send troops to tame rebellious proconsuls, not with Zamorak's hordes pressing down on us from the east. They have more power over me than they realize. Nay, the key to keeping order in times like these is to maintain the _appearance_ of power…" The King's voice trailed off, and he shook his head once, forcing another smile. "Listen to me, prattling on and on like an old man. I do not wish to bore you with talk of politics."

"My King, nothing you say could bore me," Lady Aurelia hummed with muted laughter, taking Osman's hand with her own. "Politics least of all."

The King's smile did not physically move, but now it seemed to reach his eyes. He and Aurelia gazed at each other for a few moments, Osman suddenly at a loss for what to say. He gave a mental shrug; after all, the two of them did not always need spoken words to have a conversation. But there was something different in his friend's look, today. Almost like she was daring him to make a move.

As if on cue, the two of them started leaning towards one another at the exact same time…and then the silence was suddenly shattered by a series of sharp knocks on the door. Lady Aurelia shot the door a dirty look, and the King swore under his breath, rising to his feet and telling the visitor to enter.

The door opened to reveal Vasello, the keeper of the messenger ravens. He held a tightly-folded square of parchment in his grasp. "Message for you, Sire, milady," the keeper bowed his head to the King, and then to Lady Aurelia as he noticed her presence, then stepped forward, held out the parchment. "Rushed it here straightaway, Sire, soon as it came, as Saradomin's my witness."

"Thank you, Vasello, that will be all," the King accepted the message, dismissing the other man. Vasello bowed once again, turned, took his leave. Once the door closed, Osman unfolded the parchment and read the message within, murmuring the words quietly to himself. "_Crossed River Salve, Icyene virtually wiped out, Hallowlands lost_…"

Osman lay the message flat on his desk, leaning back into his chair. These were bad tidings, indeed… Earlier, in the assembly chamber, when the King had declared to Lord Mercato that the Icyene were defeated, he had not known for sure if he spoke the truth. He had a good feeling in his gut that the winged folk who were so favored by Saradomin were no more, due to the sudden loss of contact not only from Ascertes and Efaritay, their monarchs, but also from their ambassadors, and every other member of their species whom the King had regular association with. But he'd had no proof to back up such a claim.

Now, that proof lay before him. The Icyene were defeated, Hallowvale sacked, the Hallowlands lost. That was yet another ally of Centralia, knocked off the game board by Zamorak. Not for the first time, the King started to have an acute feeling of the sheer pressure that was beginning to constrict around him and his nation. The Icyene and the Menaphites had both been removed from the equation almost simultaneously. The Elves, Dwarves, the Gnomes… They had all retreated from this world, gone away to their distant, faraway realms, obviously intending to ride out the storm. Let the Humans fight it out, as it were. They would be of no help, even if Osman knew how to contact them.

The only other player left in this game of war, on Centralia's side, was the Ainu. Their isolation was turning out to be their salvation…even if it was only a temporary one. If Centralia fell to Zamorak, it would only be a matter of time until he turned his attention across the Eastern Sea. And even if Osman won the assistance of the Ainu, there was still no guarantee that Centralia would survive the coming storm…but the odds would not be stacked _quite_ as heavily against them.

Yet again, King Osman offered up a silent prayer to Saradomin for the well-being of his Praetor.

But, though the message bore fell tidings, perhaps there was at least one good thing that could be excised from it.

"Good news? Bad news?" Lady Aurelia asked, craning her neck to see the dispatch. "It had better be _important_ news…"

"Bad news, with a silver lining," Osman said, reading through the message one more time. "The Hallowlands have been lost to the Dark One… But our First Element seems to have just crossed the River Salve. The Warmaster has returned to us."

* * *

Athellenas Imperator, Warmaster of the Centralian Legions, could not shake the feeling that he was currently in a place where he did not belong. Of course, he did not believe a commander should command from the rear of a column—he had personally led his fair share of assaults more times than he cared to count—but what he was doing right now was quite different from leading an assault.

Deep reconnaissance was probably the best way to describe it. This was the far northeast of Centralia—the Stellantae Province, to be precise. It was one of the least populated regions of the Empire, right along with the provinces that bordered the Wilderness. This whole entire stretch of lightly-populated woodlands bordering the Wilderness and the River Salve was called the _Scutum Arborium,_ which meant 'Shield of Trees' in Commonspeak, named for the dense forests of these regions.

There were virtually no cities in this part of the Empire. Even the capital of Stellantae, the great city of Saranthium, was more a monument than it was an actual city—not many people lived there. The only reason it had been built in the first place was to bury the ruins of Senntisten, the capital city of the Empire of the Second Age, the greatest empire Gielinor has ever known. It had been ruled by Zaros, the Empty Lord, but Saradomin and his followers were always doing their utmost to cover up or destroy evidence of his existence. Most business in the Stellantae Province was conducted from the smaller city of Avarrocka, further to the northwest.

The point of all this was that there were not very many civilians that had to be evacuated from the area. And this was a good thing; the presence of civilians always tended to throw a wrench in any sound military strategy. Unfortunately, the absence of walled towns prevented Athellenas from establishing strongpoints in his lines…but the dense forest somewhat made up for that. If one were to strip the northeast of its forests, it would be a region of rolling hills. As it was, it was _still_ a region of rolling hills—they were simply harder to see because they were completely covered with trees.

The important part about the topography of the region was the fact that in several key locations, the hills were high enough and close enough together to form a ridge. This occurred several times throughout the northeast—each ridge a bit further west than the last. Athellenas was establishing his lines of defense along these ridges. That was going to be the best way to make a stand against Zamorak's hordes—the Legions reigned supreme on open ground, but the Scutum Aborium was anything but. The Centralians would have to make the environment fight for them just as much as their swords and spears.

Athellenas had been delighted to discover that, during his campaign through the desert and subsequent retreat through what had used to be the Hallowlands, the King had managed to somehow subvert consular authority and mobilize the whole of the Centralian Army. Twenty-five legions total, long overdue for a fight. And not only that, but King Osman had also issued an order of conscription, which would swell the ranks of the Legions. They would also replenish the losses sustained by the I, IV, and X Legions during the past six months. A king had not ordered a draft for nearly four hundred years; Athellenas was certain that the King had taken heat from the proconsuls for that. But the order had not been rescinded, so perhaps Osman was beginning to learn the ropes of dealing with the nobles.

So at this moment, the soldiers of Legio Nona Flavia Pacis were nearly three leagues behind Athellenas's current location, hard at work preparing their portion of Mattinse Ridge for the coming storm. Further to the north and to the south, respectively, Legio Quarta Mortifers and Legio Tertiadecima Regis Felix were doing the exact same thing, along with all the other legions spread out along the escarpment. And even while this was happening, the legions not currently stationed on Mattinse Ridge were building up fortifications on Silvosii Ridge, which was roughly eight leagues west of Mattinse. Athellenas knew that Mattinse Ridge would inevitably fall—as all first lines of defense usually fall—so he was simply preparing ahead of time for when the legions on Mattinse would have to fall back.

With everything moving smoothly for the moment, Athellenas had joined Sir Horatio on a reconnaissance run in order to see for his own eyes the size of the force that they would soon be fighting against. Sir Horatio, a nobleman from the northern province of Collivento—also a part of the Scutum Arborium—was himself an experienced woodsman and tracker, quite accomplished in the arts of stealth. He was subordinate to General Sinclair, the _legatus_ of the IV Legion. He did not possess an official command, however—the sheer amount of time he spent on recon missions would have made it impossible for him to effectively command a centuria or a cohort.

Athellenas wore a heavy cloak that was mottled green and brown in lieu of his armor, which would have made too much noise. And making noise was somewhat detrimental to a reconnaissance mission…especially when you were close enough to your enemy to see them with the naked eye. The Warmaster was concealed in a clump of bushes on top of a knoll that was overlooking the River Salve. He was peering through a spyglass, observing the forces arrayed on the eastern shore of the river.

The Warmaster saw countless scores of undead—some simply animated skeletons, others more…fresh. He saw what seemed to be vampyres and werewolves—unusual to see those two species within proximity of one another without bloodshed. The Warmaster continued to sweep his gaze over the horde on the other side of the River Salve, his scowl deepening more and more as he did so. He spotted Zamorackian Monks—pretty much the Chaos equivalent of a Paladin of the Church—who seemed to form the magical backbone of their force. He could also see a few demons down there, who had to be acting as lieutenants to the Mahjarrat Zemouregal, who Athellenas had learned was commanding the entire force. They would prove difficult to handle.

"You have seen the demons?" a voice whispered from the bush adjacent to the Warmaster's. Sir Horatio had not been there a minute ago, and Athellenas had not heard him crawl up onto the knoll…but then, if the Warmaster _had_ heard the northerner creeping up on him, he would have been disappointed.

"Aye, I've seen them," Athellenas murmured in response. "Every time I see another one, I thank the Gods that we have artillery. Without the Icyene to fight alongside us, gunpowder is going to be our best defense against those beasts…"

"And what of the Mahjarrat?" Sir Horatio asked, looking back through his own spyglass. "What if _he_ decides to attack?"

Athellenas hesitated. He already knew the answer to the veteran scout's question, but he refused to utter it. "Zemouregal had plenty of opportunity to attack us directly during our retreat, but he has thus far refrained from doing so. I think Zamorak's Mahjarrat focus most of their time and energy on fighting those of their kind who still pledge allegiance to the Empty Lord. We are but an annoyance to his ilk."

"You have my agreement, there…" Sir Horatio muttered. Again, Horatio was part of the IV Legion, which had fought in the Desert Campaign. He had seen what had happened when the Mahjarrat Azzanadra had been unleashed on Thammaron's hordes, at the ruins of Uzer. He had witnessed firsthand what Mahjarrat were capable of. He knew that the Legions, in all their might and glory, would not be able to do very much to hurt Zemouregal if he attacked, not without the assistance of the Icyene, who were all gone, now; dead, or enslaved by Drakan, the lord of vampyres.

Even in the beginning of the Third Age, before the birth of Pendragon the Unifier, the forces of Saradomin and Zamorak had occasionally worked in concert with one another to destroy the remnants of Zaros's empire, only to turn on each other afterwards—such was the power of the followers of the Empty Lord. And Azzanadra was not the only Zarosian Mahjarrat out there—Athellenas knew of others who might be motivated to harry the followers of the one who had overthrown their master, had even met a couple of them during his travels with Jerrod the Lightbringer. One of them had even attempted to turn both of them into his personal wights—Athellenas did his best not to think about that particular occasion. But he had to admit that, were it not for the existence of the Zarosian Loyalists, the Zamorackian Mahjarrat would have burned Centralia to ashes centuries ago.

No, Zemouregal may be in command of the invasion force, but he would not be focusing on fighting Humans; that was beneath him. He would be hunting Zarosians. His subordinates were more than capable of carrying the fight to the Legions; they did not require the presence of a central commander nearly as much as the Centralians did.

"They do not seem to be making any effort to cross the river," Athellenas observed.

"They're buildin' up their strength, sir," another voice whispered, this time coming from the bush on the _other_ side of the Warmaster.

Athellenas gave a start, swearing under his breath as he turned in the direction of the second voice. Another man in a forest camouflage cloak lay in the shrubs to his left. His face was painted brown, streaked with varying shades of green and grey, making him blend even more into his surroundings. Had he not spoken, Athellenas was sure the scout could have remained next to him indefinitely, and not be noticed.

"Apologies, _Imperator,_" the camouflaged man touched his thumb to his brow in an informal salute.

"None of that, now," Athellenas grunted. "I won't have a man apologizing for doing his job well. You were saying?"

"Uh…what I was sayin', yes, sir," the man pointed northward with his index finger. "I was up on that tall hill to the north, I was, an' I could see more monsters arrivin' from the east. Undead, mostly…a group of death knights, a whole column of goblins…"

"Goblins?" Sir Horatio arched a questioning eyebrow. "I thought they belonged to Bandos. What are they doing here?"

"The followers of Bandos are not exactly strong-minded creatures," Athellenas said to the knight. "It is not uncommon for Zamorak to bend them to his will. That is, after all, how he originally gained dominion over the vampyres and werewolves. And what is the mind of a goblin, compared to that of a werewolf?"

"Point taken," Sir Horatio gave a single nod. "Go on, Achrysis."

"Milord," the camouflage-faced man touched his thumb to his brow again, "As I was sayin', I saw these reinforcements joinin' the main host, an' I could see more on the horizon. Whoever's in charge of that mob over there, he's waitin' to get his full strength before crossin' the river."

"Zemouregal is his name," Athellenas interjected. "A long-winded fellow, if memory serves… If he waits to amass his full strength before crossing the Salve, he probably intends to send a massive first wave. Drown us in the blood of his own minions, as it were."

"Good thing we have the high ground, then," Sir Horatio remarked. "Can't drown in blood if it keeps flowing downhill."

Athellenas allowed himself a quiet chuckle. "Indeed… I believe I have seen all there is to see. Mattinse Ridge demands my return," the Warmaster lowered his spyglass and compacted it, slipping it onto his belt, turning to face the knight. "Sir Horatio, I want you and your men to fall back, as well. Leave one man on Achrysis's hill, however, and give him orders to ride back to Mattinse and inform me when the enemy begins crossing the Salve."

"I'll do the deed myself," Sir Horatio replied.

"As you wish," the Warmaster nodded, slowly easing himself out of the bushes. Once he was free, he turned to the knight and clasped his fist to his heart in a salute. "Saradomin protect you, Sir Horatio."

Sir Horatio returned the salute, bidding farewell to the Warmaster. "_Athellenas Imperator._"

After exchanging a brief parting nod with Achrysis, Athellenas absconded. The Warmaster took his time, moving slowly down the hillside. Even though there was no way for him to be spotted by the enemy while behind the hill, the Warmaster did not tempt fate. Not until he was deep into the forest did Athellenas pick up the pace, hurrying to the glade where he had left Onyx.

The white and gray dappled charger whinnied as it spotted its master, pawing the ground impatiently.

Athellenas rubbed Onyx's nose tenderly. "I'm sorry I had to leave you behind, old friend," the Warmaster murmured, untying the horse from the rope that bound it to a nearby tree. "Where I went, you could not follow."

The white-gray charger tossed his head, exhaling sharply through his nostrils in a loud snort.

"You're right, you do deserve a little compensation," Athellenas nodded in agreement. The older man reached into one of the saddlebags and produced Onyx's favorite treat; a speckled blue Karamja apple. He circled back around to the horse's front, offering up the treat.

Onyx regarded the old man for a moment before quickly snatching the apple out of his grasp with his teeth. As Onyx chewed, Athellenas swung himself up into the saddle. He leaned forward, rubbing the charger's mane. "Better now?" he asked.

The horse continued to chew, giving no other reply.

"That's what I thought," the Warmaster chuckled, taking up the reins. "Time to move, old friend. _Hyah!_" Athellenas dug his heels into Onyx's sides, prompting the charger to set off at a full gallop. The trees whipped by, their branches always threatening to catch Athellenas off-guard and send him flying off the saddle. As the clouds gathered overhead, the absence of proper sunlight served to make it just that much darker under the forest canopy, which lived in constant shade.

Thunder growled in the east. The storm had been building for over a day, now, but it had always been some ominous, distant threat. Now, it was nearly on top of Athellenas and his army. The Warmaster knew that this fact, tied with the fact that the enemy had arrived at the Salve, was no coincidence. That storm was not natural.

Athellenas rode through the better part of the morning until the crags of Mattinse Ridge came into view. The Warmaster ascended the tall series of hills, making his way past the earthworks and trenches. The soldiers stationed at these works all livened up and cheered Athellenas as he rode past with cries of, "_Athellenas Imperator!_"

Sometimes the Warmaster wished they would not call him that. 'Imperator' was a title that was supposed to be reserved for military commanders who have accomplished great victories. So far, the two campaigns Athellenas had commanded had ended in tactical failure…but perhaps the soldiers considered the fact that their Warmaster was able to bring most of them back home through a hostile forest-turned-swamp was a great victory in of itself.

The Warmaster met with the majority of the legion generals under his command at the central camp, during which time he shared with them everything he had seen across the River Salve, urging them to speed up the process of fortifications as much as they could. Time, after all, was not their friend.

Nearly three days later, Athellenas was rising from his slumber not long before dawn. He yawned and stretched, doing his best to do away with the weariness lingering in his bones. Sir Derren was overseeing the progress on Silvosii Ridge, so the command center was currently being headed up by Lord Varo, Athellenas's _Praefectum_. In the command staff, the Prefect served as third in overall command, after the Auspex—Sir Derren—and the Warmaster himself.

Athellenas had just slipped into his armor when he heard the commotion coming from the direction of the command tent. Within half a minute, a soldier appeared outside Athellenas's tent, saluting the Warmaster. "_Imperator,_" he bowed his head in respect to his superior, "Your presence is requested by the _Praefectum_."

"Gratitude," Athellenas returned the salute. He buckled his sword belt around his waist and slid his dagger into its sheath, which he had secured to his left thigh. Now that he was fully dressed and prepared for whatever today had to throw at him, the Warmaster ducked out of his tent and into the chilly, pre-dawn morning air. The central camp was dimly illuminated by a network of suspended oil lamps, so Athellenas had no trouble making his way to the command tent.

In the center of the tent was a table with a map of the Northeast tacked to the surface. There were golden clay eagle figurines placed at various points of the map, each one representing a different legion. Surrounding these eagle figurines were smaller clay pieces—simple circles of clay, each one inscribed with a numeral—which represented the subordinate cohorts of each legion. The silver-hued, horse-shaped figurines represented the numerous cavalry units under the command of Sir Havarell. And lastly, the bronze-colored figurines that bore the shape of a cannon served to represent the artillery batteries—all of which Athellenas had placed under the command of Sir Brezhnov, the Fremennik-born bear of a man who had proved his ability to organize and utilize artillery throughout the Desert Campaign and the Fall of the Hallowlands. He had earned his Warmaster's trust.

The far 'wall' of the tent was lined with basins, all of which were filled with water. During battle, mages would use them to scry upon what was happening at the front lines. If a unit was destroyed, fell back, or advanced, they would then alter the map—removing pieces, moving them back, or moving them forward, depending.

Lord Varo was poring over the map when Athellenas entered the tent, facing away from the entrance flap. Sensing the Warmaster's arrival, he straightened up and turned around, offering Athellenas a nod of greeting. "_Imperator_. Apologies for the early summons, but Sir Horatio has just arrived in camp. He informed me that the enemy is no longer receiving reinforcements and has begun crossing the River Salve."

Athellenas showed no emotion on his face. He had not been looking forward to this moment, but he had not been dreading it, either. It was something that some part of his mind, deep inside, had accepted long ago…that it was inevitable that he would have to fight Zamorak's hordes _inside_ Centralia, that this terrible war would touch his home. That moment had now come. Zamorak was taking his first step into the empire, and it would now take a nigh-unimaginable amount of effort in order to make him leave.

"Send dispatches to every legion," Athellenas ordered. "Where is Sir Horatio now?"

"I ordered him straight to the mess tent," the Prefect replied. "The poor man looked half-starved. I also instructed him not to leave camp until he briefed you in person, so he should be there still."

"Very good," Athellenas pulled back the entrance flap, wincing at the sudden blast of cold air as he stepped outside. "Send those dispatches. Saradomin protect us."

The Warmaster walked with a renewed vigor in his stride. He had spent too long retreating from the enemy in the former Hallowlands; now, he and his men would finally be able to plant their feet firmly and make a stand. Perhaps Zamorak's hordes would succeed in driving the Legions away from Mattinse Ridge…but the Warmaster vowed to make them pay a steep price for doing so.

Zamorak did not intend to leave, but neither did Athellenas.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Hello readers! Been a little while, hasn't it?_

_So, I'm sure some of you remember me saying, way back when, that because I finished my huge Halo story that I would be able to devote more time to this one. Well, I was not lying; I _did_ have more time to devote to this story... Only problem was that I came down with a bad (and I mean _bad_) case of writer's block, which lasted for about four or so months. This was for several reasons; I was having trouble establishing the whole 'Roman' atmosphere, I was at a loss for how to continue Avis's training, I was having some issues with resolving the Ainu story arc, and, ultimately, the story simply did not seem to be getting very much attention back then, so I was not as motivated to put as much effort into it as I was for my other stories. But a breakthrough came earlier in the week, so hopefully I can start getting back on track. I'm in college, now, so the updates will not be as frequent as I would like...but I really don't intend to take any more four-month hiatuses like that._

_Something reviewers seem to have been commenting on lately is the lack of action, but you all seem to understand why that is (building up the plot). But still, after a wait like that, you guys deserve something big. I know this chapter did not really have much action, either, but I can, without giving away spoilers, tell you that there will be some in the next one. And there will be a fuckload in the one after that._

_If all goes according to plan, that is._

_But anyway, if you're reading this, you haven't completely forgotten about this story, for which I thank you. My writing, especially on this site, is only as good as those who read it._

_-TheAmateur_


	20. Chapter 20: Surprise Visits

Chapter Twenty: Surprise Visits

"_Early rise, boy_."

The gruff voice swam into Avis's dreams, like the disembodied voice of a god speaking from on high. It seeped into the very fabric of the dream and caused it to fall apart. Avis opened his eyes, returning to the waking world, upon which he realized that the voice had not been part of his dream. Though that fact was quite obvious, a newly-awakened mind, laden with weariness, was usually slow to draw such conclusions.

Avis glanced over to the window, seeing the faint morning light shining through it. It had to be around midmorning, then; the early light of dawn was impossible to see due to the cloud cover. Thunder could be heard in the distance, like a predator hiding behind a bush, waiting for the right moment to strike. "Will we ever see the sun again?" he asked around his yawn, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed.

Jerrod cast a furtive glance over to the window, observing the weather. "Doubtful," the Cleric muttered. The older man was busy lacing up his boots—one of his regular morning routines. "This war is changing, escalating. The King's Legions will do their utmost to drive the enemy back, but it will not be long before the conflict reaches a breaking point, and that time is coming soon…I can feel it in my bones."

"So…that's a _no_ on the sun?"

Jerrod fixed his pupil with one of his trademark glares. "Yes, Avis, that is a _no_ on the sun."

"Good thing we're clear on that."

The Cleric continued to grumble under his breath, but he seemed to let this one go. After he finished lacing up his boots, the older man rose to his feet, gesturing for Avis to do the same. "We will stay here for the day. I will take you to see Reyton and get you fixed with a blade more suitable than the piece of scrap metal you've been using. And we'll have to get you some new clothing; Winter is coming, and I will not have you running about in naught but that silly vest."

Avis had no response to that. The chill of the autumn was quite different than the arid climate he had grown up in, and even though he was not affected by the cold quite as much as humans were, he certainly was not immune. It would be difficult for him to end the wars if he ended up dying of hypothermia.

Jerrod and Avis made their way outside, trading semi-friendly nods with the innkeeper, who was busy preparing breakfast for the other tenants. The Cleric stepped out onto the cobbled streets, pausing briefly to take a few deep breaths of fresh air. Absent were the birds that usually hailed the onset of morning with their chirping; the distant thunder was the only sound of nature, as well as the light breeze which had begun to pick up.

Jerrod had seen more than his fair share of storms, but this one left an uneasy feeling in his gut. Though it was still somewhat in the distance, the Cleric feared what would happen when it finally arrived.

The red glow of the forge was easily visible from outside the smithy, through the open front doors. The figure of a short, portly man could be seen as well, silhouetted against the harsh glare of the forge. The man raised his hammer and brought it down onto the anvil, raised it again, brought it back down—he did this in a steady, rhythmic fashion. After every so many strokes of the hammer, the man would turn from the anvil back to the fire, and he would work the bellows to keep the fire hot. Then it was back to the anvil.

"Wait outside, will you?" Jerrod said to the boy. "Reyton is…well, he's a bit of a grump; and this is coming from _me_. I believe it would be better if I spoke to him alone, for now. Don't come inside until I call you."

Avis shrugged. "Fine by me."

The inside of the smithy was much brighter than it had seemed from the outside. Once Jerrod stepped through the double doors at the front of the building, the bladesmith became clearly visible. Though he had seemed portly from the outside, it took only one glance to see that his girth was of muscle, not fat. He had a thick neck and a harsh, lightly-wrinkled face. He was completely bald, but he did sport a thick, gray, droopy mustache that dominated his upper lip, as well as similarly-bushy eyebrows.

"Reyton!" the Cleric hollered to be heard over the din of the old bladesmith's work.

The muscular man did not look up or in any way acknowledge the presence of the newcomer. Instead, he continued to hammer at the heated piece of metal on the anvil. Though it was not quite finished, Jerrod could see that it was going to be a gladius. The shape of the blade was quite apparent, but it still needed more work.

The bladesmith picked up the unfinished sword with the tongs and thrust it into a nearby bucket of water, which sizzled and steamed as it made contact with the heated steel. Once the steel had cooled, the bladesmith withdrew it from the water and slid it back into the forge and started to heat the next portion of the blade. After working the bellows once more, the muscled man allowed himself to stretch for a moment before finally taking notice of his visitor.

His gaze lingered on the boy outside for less than a second before sliding away, but when it moved to Jerrod, recognition flared in his eyes. He raised an eyebrow a fraction, but that was the only outward reaction he gave to seeing the Cleric. "Thought you were dead."

And that was it. No hello, or anything…just 'Thought you were dead'. Reyton had not been a man of many words in his youth, and he obviously had not changed one bit.

"Indeed," Jerrod nodded. "You, and the rest of the world."

Reyton took the unfinished blade out of the forge with the tongs and laid it back on the anvil. He switched out the tongs for his hammer and began shaping, modifying the heated portion of the steel, sparks flying with each blow.

"Still churning out swords for the Kingdom, I see," Jerrod remarked.

Reyton shrugged, flipping the unfinished blade over and working on the other side, working out the final imperfections in the steel. "I share this forge with my old friends from the Legions. Bladesmithing is good, humbling work…humbling because no one man can create a blade. It takes four craftsmen to do the deed. _Five,_ if you count Essio, who smelts the iron ore into the steel that I am currently shaping. Now, what's this?" he nodded over to the entrance doors, where Avis could be seen sitting outside. "You bring me an apprentice?"

Jerrod gave a quiet chuckle. "I would not doom him to such a fate."

"Good," Reyton grunted, "Because I do not take apprentices. This one looks like he's full of surprises, but I'd wager metalworking is not one of them. So why, then, have you decided to grace me with your presence?"

"The boy needs a proper blade," the Cleric explained. "I would have your services."

Reyton repeated the quenching process once more—putting the blade into the water bucket, then back onto the forge. "How old is he? Eleven? Twelve? What business does a child have wielding one of my blades? Do you think I am a toymaker?"

"You would not ask that if you knew half of what that boy is capable of."

"I do not care how much of a prodigy you fancy him; he is still a child, and my work is not for the hands of children. It is insulting," Reyton grunted, glancing over at the forge to check on his blade. Satisfied that it was sufficiently heated, the bladesmith set it back upon the anvil and got back to work, hammering delicately at the tip of the future sword.

"He is no mere child," Jerrod argued. He took a quick glance around the room—even though he knew very well that they were alone, it had become a reflex. "He is more than Human. He is named in a Prophecy as the one who will bring these wars to an end—you cannot even begin to fathom how important he is to Saradomin and Zamorak. And so, I ask you again…will you help us?"

"Where do _you_ factor into this equation, eh?" Reyton inquired, quenching the blade once more. "Did Saradomin himself come to you in a dream and tell you to be the kid's babysitter?"

Jerrod's expression remained neutral. "He told me face-to-face, not in a dream. He chose me to train the boy."

"Well that just proves that Gods are not omniscient," Reyton rumbled with laughter, removing the gladius blade from the water and setting it down on a stone shelf so that it could cool. When ready, it would go to the grinder, who would hone the blade's tip and edges and polish it to perfection. "Does the Divine Old Man not know of your wishes for the Gods to leave this plane?"

"He does not," Jerrod said quickly. "He would strike me down if he did, so I would appreciate it if you refrained from mentioning it."

Reyton plucked off his heavy fire gloves, dropping them onto the anvil, and ambled over to one of the wooden cabinets next to the cooling shelf. He opened it and took out a tankard. He then crouched down to the large barrel and opened the tap, filling the tankard with a frothy, golden-brown drink.

"Is it wise to indulge while working?" Jerrod gestured at the drink.

Reyton tipped the tankard back, taking a long drink to quench his thirst. "It is apple cider," the bladesmith said, setting the tankard down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He picked up an iron fire poker from the rack next to the forge, swinging it back and forth nonchalantly. "Alright, Lightbringer. You keep saying the boy is a special case. Why don't we let him speak for himself?"

Jerrod stepped over to the entrance doors and whistled over to Avis, giving him a single nod. The boy stood up and followed his teacher inside, blinking a few times to adjust his eyes to the interior of the room, which was very bright compared to the gloomy gray day outside.

"What's your name, boy?" the bladesmith grunted, resting his iron poker down on the ground, leaning on it like a cane.

"Avis, sir."

"Avis…be a good lad and grab me one of those iron pokers, will you?"

Avis's brow furrowed in a slight frown. "Aren't you already holding one?"

Reyton exhaled sharply through his nose. "Did I ask you to demonstrate your grasp on the blatantly obvious, or did I ask you to get me an iron poker?"

"You…asked me to get you an iron poker."

"Then why are you still standing there?"

Avis clamped his mouth shut before he said anything he'd later regret. Jerrod was right; this man _was_ a grump. Deciding to play along for now, the boy brushed past the short, muscular man and walked up to the rack next to the forge, selecting one of the fire pokers. As he pulled the length of iron from the rack, he heard the thickset man striding forward even before he heard the faint _whoosh_ of metal rushing through the air.

Instinct took over and Avis jumped to the side, just as Reyton's metal poker cleaved through the air where the boy had just been standing. Reyton was quick to recover, pivoting around on one foot and launching another strike aimed at the boy's head.

Avis quickly realized that the other man was not playing with him; Reyton was actually trying to hit him. The boy ducked and rolled to the side, avoiding the blow, and sprang back up to his feet, found himself facing the bladesmith's turned back. He thrust his poker forward, aiming for the lower back, but was surprised when Reyton whipped around to the side and batted Avis's strike away.

"You know how to duck and prance like a little fairy, boy," Reyton sneered, stepping back and assuming his stance. "Stand your ground and face me like a warrior."

With that, the bladesmith lunged forward, launching another attack on Avis. The boy could not help himself; as the first blow came careening towards his head, he threw himself to the side, executing a perfect roll…right into Reyton's iron. The bladesmith had anticipated the boy's evasion, and had positioned himself accordingly to intercept Avis as he came out of his roll. "Evade, evade, evade…" Reyton muttered as he struck Avis across the cheek with his fire poker, sending the boy sprawling. "It matters not how much skill an individual possesses; a predictable warrior is not a warrior at all—he is a corpse. I do not sell swords to corpses, either-"

Avis, ignoring the pain throbbing through his face, seized his iron poker even as Reyton spoke, and lunged, striking at the other man's shoulder. If the bladesmith was surprised at the sudden attack, he did not show it. He swept his poker upwards, blocking Avis's attack. Avis's first inclination was to leap back or dive to the side to avoid the bladesmith's impending counterattack…but then some new form of resolve seized his mind, and he found himself stepping _forward,_ locking the iron pokers between their bodies. Unable to use his poker, Avis used his head—headbutting the bladesmith right to the front of the chin, sending him staggering back.

Avis stepped forward once again, pressing his attack. Unfortunately, the headbutt had done little more than throw Reyton off-balance—it would take a lot more to actually _hurt_ the heavily-muscled man. Once Reyton regained his footing, he was quickly able to reestablish his guard. Though Avis rained blow after blow on the other man, Reyton was able to deflect every single one, gradually regaining lost ground until the energy of Avis's strikes decreased slightly and the fight became an even one.

The melee lasted several minutes before Reyton lowered his fire poker and called an end to the fight. Jerrod had watched the entire show from the side, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he saw Avis go on the offensive. The boy had never done anything like that during their sparring bouts…perhaps it was because he was facing an unknown opponent who had not yet shattered his jaw.

The Cleric had to admit, he had not been aware of Reyton's skill with the blade. When he inquired on the subject, the bladesmith only gave another shrug. "I prefer creating swords over using them, but I make it a point to excel at both. As for you…" he turned his gaze back to Avis, "A boy your age should not have been able to last so long in a duel like this, not with heavy iron rods like these."

"As I said," Jerrod interjected quickly before Avis could reply—better, the Cleric reasoned, for the bladesmith not to know that the boy was Mahjarrat. Most of what Centralians knew of the Mahjarrat pertained only to those that had fought against them in battle, not the more civilized ones. "He is no mere child."

"_Mm,_" Reyton hummed, looking at Avis with new eyes. "Fine, then. You'll have your sword… Have you trained with a shield of any sort?"

"No, sir, I have not," Avis replied.

"A spatha, then," Reyton nodded once, then vanished into the backroom, leaving Jerrod and Avis alone once more.

"That went well," the Cleric remarked. "I did not think he would warm up to you like that."

"Warm up?" it was Avis's turn to arch an eyebrow. "You call that 'warming up'?"

"He sparred with you. He rarely ever spars," the Cleric explained. "As he said, he prefers making blades over using them. I am just grateful that you took the offensive on him, there… You have never done that, before."

"Don't really know what happened," Avis said. "It was like my body moved before my brain told it to."

"That's reflex, boy. It means you're learning."

"He's never broken my jaw, either."

The door to the backroom was pushed open once more, and Reyton emerged, bearing a sheathed blade, attached to a thick leather belt. He strode up to his guests and, after receiving a purse of coins from Jerrod, presented the sword to Avis. The boy accepted the weapon and, with its creator's permission, drew it out. He was surprised to find that the steel of the blade was tinted a brilliant shade of scarlet—very close to the color of his eyes. The balance of the blade was perfect—he could place the base of the blade upon his palm, and the sword would not tip in either direction.

"This is a spatha," Reyton explained, stepping back as Avis performed a few experimental strokes with his new blade. "The color is from the very specific temperature at which the blade was tempered. It is nearly a foot longer than the gladius, favored by the cavalry for just that reason. A man on horseback needs the extra length in order to reach his enemies. In your case, you will need the extra length to make up for the absence of a shield. Use it well."

Avis sheathed the blade, securing the sword belt around his waist. "That I will."

And with that, Reyton turned away from the boy. Without saying anything more, the bladesmith retrieved a bar of steel from the supplies and placed it on the forge so that all of it would be heated equally. When Jerrod bid the other man farewell, all he got in reply was a muted grunt. The bladesmith was already engrossed in his work once more. They would get no more conversation out of him, not even a goodbye.

Avis and Jerrod took their leave, stepping back out onto the street. The wind was beginning to pick up, then, bringing a bit of a chill over the area. The thunder was still somewhat distant, but not quite as much as before.

"Do you feel that?" Avis asked as they started heading towards the marketplace at the heart of Agoras.

Jerrod cast a querying glance over to his pupil. "What, the wind?" he asked, seeking clarification.

"No, not the wind…" Avis shook his head once, searching for adequate words to describe the odd sensation he was feeling. To be truthful, it was not even a new feeling—the boy had always felt it, but never enough to take notice of it. Almost like the subtle ringing in one's ears when in a silent place. But now the feeling had intensified, which is why he was suddenly noticing it. He tried to convey it into words. "Almost like…like a… A glowing warmth, from within… I can't really describe it. Never mind."

Jerrod stared at his pupil for a few moments more before turning away. "If you say so."

The two companions continued down the road. They encountered more people the closer they got to the center of town. But even so, the marketplace seemed a bit more…subdued. Like it was not getting as much business as it would normally. In fact, this could easily be applied to the town as a whole; it just seemed…quiet.

"In here," Jerrod pointed at one of the shops lining the marketplace. Avis did not get a look at the name of the shop before entering, but it was obviously a place where one could buy clothing.

The interior of the shop was comfortably lit and had an aroma of apple cinnamon—appropriate for the autumn. Stacks of clothing lay on shelves that lined the walls, as well as tables that were set in the middle space of the room. A tall, wiry man, dressed in a burgundy suit with an abundance of ruffles sprouting from the ends of his sleeves and between the jacket's lapels, was folding the wares on one of the tables. He had perfectly combed and waxed brown hair. A pencil-thin mustache colored his upper lip, as well as a carefully-trimmed goatee on his chin. This was a man who obviously cared about his appearance very much.

The well-dressed man, who had to be the shopkeeper, saw Jerrod enter with Avis in tow. "Customers?" he asked, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Oh, how delightful! Business has been rather dreadful as of late, and with good reason…"

"I was meaning to ask about that, actually," Jerrod said. "I could not help but notice that Agoras seems much quieter than when last I visited. Know you the meaning behind this?"

"Rumors and whispers, mostly," the shopkeeper shrugged. "Apparently the Dark One's forces have reached the River Salve and are crossing into our province. Probably a load of rubbish, if you ask me," the man chuckled quietly to himself for a moment before changing the subject. "But enough of this dour talk. I assume you wish to buy some garments? Well, your wish has been granted, good sir! If you'll permit me, I would recommend a-"

"I have not come for myself; I would have clothing for the boy," Jerrod interrupted, nodding down to Avis.

The shopkeeper took one look at Avis's cloth pants and vest, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. "I should say so…"

"Nothing fancy, mind you," Jerrod grunted. "I just don't want him dying of hypothermia during the winter."

"Well, that really depends on what you would consider 'fancy'. I, for one, would assume that the boy…"

Avis tuned out the conversation between the two men. He found it slightly difficult to concentrate on listening to it, at the moment… That strange feeling he had felt before, it had not gone away…if anything, it had grown even stronger. The maddening thing about it was that it felt so _familiar_…but he could not quite remember what it was. Every time he came close to figuring it out, the answer would slip away.

"…just the woolen pants and shirt, and a cloak as well. This is final," Jerrod declared, his patience beginning to wear thin.

"Oh, very well," the shopkeeper pouted, turning away and moving to one of the shelves, muttering under his breath—mostly likely about Jerrod's ignorance of proper fashion.

The Cleric then took notice of Avis, and he frowned. The boy was breathing heavily, leaning against one of the shelves. He quickly moved to the boy's side, touched his shoulder to get his attention. "You're unnerving me, boy. What ails you?"

"I... That feeling… I can't shake it, it just keeps getting stronger," Avis murmured, blinking several times, trying to clear his head. "It will not go away."

"Is everything alright, sir?" the shopkeeper asked as he saw what was happening, having retrieved the requested wares.

"Everything is fine. How much for the wares?" Jerrod asked, not wishing to discuss such matters with the other man. He wanted to get Avis back to the inn, where he could lie down and rest—hopefully that would alleviate whatever was ailing him.

"Twenty denarii for the lot," the shopkeeper replied.

Jerrod picked out twenty silver coins from the money purse he kept in his inner pocket, handed them over to the shopkeeper, taking the clothes in exchange. With that, the Cleric slung the new clothing over his shoulder and bundled Avis out of the shop. He took the boy by the arm and led him back through the streets, away from the marketplace, back to the inn.

The strange feeling within Avis continued to intensify until, just as Jerrod led him into their living space, it suddenly dawned on him what it was he was feeling. He was sensing the presence of someone…someone whose presence on this plane of existence he had _always_ been able to sense, but now that the individual in question was in close proximity…

"_Mother_…" the boy whispered.

"What was that?"

Avis sat down on his bed, the disorientation finally gone. He looked up at his mentor, his eyes wide with fear. "My mother is here."

The Cleric stared at the boy, uncomprehending. "Enakhra? How could you…?"

Before Jerrod could even finish his question, the relative quiet of the town of Agoras was suddenly shattered by an earth-trembling explosion. Jerrod whipped around to face the window, but he did not move, initially. His gaze met with Avis's, gray eyes against scarlet, and then back to the window. He looked outside, looked in the direction of the explosion…and saw a thick column of smoke rising into the air. Unfortunately, the buildings between the inn and the smoke blocked the Cleric's view of what had caused the chaos.

However, they did not block the sounds. Even from the inn, Jerrod could hear a horrid howling coming from the direction of the explosion, intermingled with agonized screaming. The howls struck a particular chord in his memory; he had heard them many times in the past. "_Werewolves_…" the Cleric murmured. He turned back to Avis. "How can you know if your mother is here?"

The boy had no real answer to give, other than, "I just know."

That was enough for Jerrod. Though the boy was obviously ignorant of the fact, Jerrod knew that Mahjarrat possessed a strange ability to sense the presence of other members of their race. If a Mahjarrat fell, its death would be felt by all. What the Cleric _hadn't_ known was that they could sense when another member of their race came into close proximity. None of the other Mahjarrat the Cleric had met had ever demonstrated this ability…but that did not mean Jerrod was going to doubt Avis's claim.

He swore under his breath, jumping into action, fastening his sword belt around his waist and sweeping his possessions—including the newly-purchased garments—back into his satchel. "If what you say is true, then we must move fast," the Cleric said, urgency clearly evident in his voice.

Enakhra's presence in Agoras was extremely bad news. To that extent, Enakhra's presence even within a hundred leagues of Avis was extremely bad news. Jerrod had crossed paths with her several times in his past, and the only reason he was still alive today was because he had always managed to evade her before she could corner him. But every time he'd escaped, he'd always feared that his luck would run out, next time they met.

And that fear had not gone away.

Alarm bells were sounding all over the town as its defense force mobilized in an attempt to repulse whatever was attacking, and watchmen could faintly be heard shouting something about the walls being breached. Obviously, the attempt to defend the town seemed to have ended before it began. When Jerrod and Avis stepped outside, they found the street deserted. This part of town had been largely quiet when they had arrived, but now there was no one left—fled to the gates, or towards some other exit.

"This way," Jerrod set off down the street, heading southeast. The explosion had come from the north, so they would be moving _away_ from whatever had breached the walls. Hopefully, they could even manage to reach the southeast walls before being noticed by anything.

Jerrod immediately cursed himself for having such thoughts; the moment the thought crossed the Cleric's mind, he heard a commotion from behind. Glancing over his shoulder, the Cleric saw a woman and a young man who looked to be in his late teens, fleeing down one of the roads that crossed this one. They did not make it any further past the intersection, however; three hairy, wolf-like creatures loped into the intersection and overtook the fleeing civilians.

Avis saw this, as well, and moved to turn and help, but Jerrod caught his arm and kept him forward. "They're already dead, boy! We have to keep moving!"

Jerrod turned away before he could watch the werewolves finish off those two people, but he was not able to tune out their horrible screams. Unfortunately, the werewolves went about their work rather quickly, so by the time they were finished with their two latest victims, Jerrod and Avis were still on the street, and were therefore spotted by the three werewolves.

Howls rose into the air as the werewolves set off in pursuit. Jerrod and Avis, who had been moving at a steady jog, broke out into a full run. As the three werewolves continued to howl, the Cleric could hear more howls rising from elsewhere in town—the creatures were communicating. Jerrod knew that they must have known who it was they were searching for; if this was true, then it would only be a matter of time before the entire pack came down on their heads.

"Get to the walls, boy!" Jerrod shouted, shoving Avis forward. "I'll handle these three."

Avis, knowing what was at stake, gave a quick nod, and vanished.

Jerrod turned back and faced the three werewolves. He leveled his staff and took a deep breath, shutting out all else in the world save for the three monsters charging him, and the hum of the energy flowing through his veins. Tapping into the currents of the Anima Mundi that flowed through one's body was always very difficult for fledgling mages to accomplish…but Jerrod could do it as naturally as he would breathe or walk, such was his prowess with magicks.

He planted his staff into the ground—as long as the elemental nexus contained within was nearby, he could invoke the elements. And he had been layering spell after spell into the staff over the decades, until by now it was virtually indestructible. He took another deep breath, and opened his eyes, his mind as clear and calm as a lake on a windless day. No emotion.

"_Water, Fire, Air,_" the Cleric whispered, looking at a different werewolf for each element, already forming in his mind how he planned on going about killing the creatures. Even as they bore down on him, he clenched his fist, and a glove of water coalesced around his hand, moisture drawn from the air itself. He looked straight at the lead wolf and whipped his hand toward the creature, fanning out his fingers.

The Water was launched at the werewolf from his fingers, forming four dart-like projectiles. As they were, they would simply strike the werewolf and splash it. Sure, it might sting, but it would cause no harm. That is why, even as the four darts of water flew through the air, Jerrod froze them, which turned them to miniature spears of ice…which buried themselves in the werewolf's throat. The creature was not killed by the strike, but it was definitely out of the fight.

Even before the first werewolf fell, Jerrod threw himself onto the ground, almost like he was doing a push-up. Instead of pushing himself back up, however, he spun his legs around and broke into a strange, whirling dance. He spun round and round on his hands, his back, his head, his shoulders...his feet never once touching the ground. Flames flared into existence, close to the cobblestones, miming the movements of his feet. They swirled round the Cleric, spinning in tandem with his feet, combined into a steady stream of fire, formed a burning ring. Jerrod let out a raw-throated '_Hyah!'_ and returned to his feet, which caused the ring of fire to explode outwards, catching the second werewolf by the feet. It yelped in pain as it went down, unable to stand on its badly burned legs.

Jerrod leaped forward as the second wolf went down, flames flaring up around his fist. The third wolf swiped at him, but Jerrod ducked, sliding under the third wolf's blow, and struck the second wolf right in the throat. The acrid stench of burning hair and flesh filled the Cleric's nostrils as his fist of fire burned the downed werewolf's neck clean through. Its severed head hit the ground with a dull thud.

The third werewolf recovered faster than Jerrod had expected. The werewolf slammed right into the Cleric's back, sending both of them tumbling head over heels until they struck the wall of the nearest house. Jerrod grunted in pain as he hit the wall—he was not quite an old man, yet, but he was certainly closer to old age than most. He could not take a beating as easily as he had in his youth, and his tumble with that werewolf was serving as a very painful reminder of that fact.

The third werewolf snarled, flipping itself back up to its feet, lunging at the Cleric, jaws snapping. Jerrod sprang to his feet and twisted away, moving faster than an arrow in flight. He had fought more than his fair share of werewolves, but he had always been especially wary of their bite. He had no desire to join their ranks. Avis, as a Mahjarrat, would be immune, but Jerrod would not be so lucky.

Before the werewolf could strike again, Jerrod planted his feet, extended his hands in a claw-like grasp, and invoked Wind. The werewolf might possess more strength and speed than the Cleric, but—like almost every other land-dwelling creature—it also possessed lungs. Lungs full of air.

It had taken Jerrod many years of practice to assert control over the air in another creature's body, but he had mastered it over time, though he rarely ever put it to good use. Today, he put it to good use. He seized control of the air within the werewolf's lungs, stopping the creature dead in its tracks. It gave an alarmed yelp, which was quickly cut off as it found itself unable to breathe.

The Cleric took a deep breath, turned his hands and pulled them outwards, like he was ripping through a curtain. There was a sickening _crunch,_ followed by the sides of the werewolf's torso exploding outward in a spray of blood, bone, and gore. The creature gurgled on its own life essence for several seconds before collapsing.

That left only the first werewolf, severely wounded by Jerrod's ice darts. The Cleric clicked his tongue, irate at having an incomplete kill as his first attack. Nevertheless, he drew his blade and finished the job with steel. No sooner had he ended the beast's life did the howling grow near, and Jerrod saw well over a dozen of the creatures storm onto the street. Those odds were a bit high for Jerrod's liking, so he seized his staff and absconded, fleeing in the direction of the walls.

He weaved his way through the alleys between the buildings, surprised to find dead werewolves lying in his path as he went—his pupil must have encountered resistance. He found Avis at the foot of the walls, at the end of a small lane. He hobbled over to the boy, ignoring the pain still throbbing throughout his body from his scuffle with the third werewolf.

The howling seemed to come from all directions. Werewolves could be seen converging on the walls from every direction, including the alleyway Jerrod had just stumbled out of. Jerrod knew that they could not remain thus, but he could not see where to go from there. As the wolves began pouring into the lane, Jerrod took Avis by the arm. "You can fly with the Wind, boy, just like you did in Ullek," the Cleric urged his pupil. "Get yourself out of here! I'll hold this lot off."

"Hold off an entire werewolf clan?" Avis was beyond skepticism. "They would tear you to ribbons."

"_You're_ the one in the Prophecy, boy, not me," Jerrod snapped, planting his staff into the ground, pulling up the sleeves of his cloak, baring his arms. "You're not meant to die here, today."

"Neither should you be!"

"Go, boy!" Jerrod shouted, twisting about and shoving Avis towards the walls. "Fly! Fly to the desert, find the Fire Temple! Then-"

"_No,_" Avis stood his ground defiantly, drawing his spatha, leveling it at the charging werewolves. "No more running. Mahjarrat do not _run_ every time they are faced with death."

Jerrod, knowing that his pupil would not budge, simply turned back to face the wolves. "_Insolent little shit_…" he growled under his breath. He held his hands high, took a deep breath, and clapped them together over his head. A sizeable gout of flame roared upwards from his hands, which he swung down in front of him to the ground, bringing the fountain of fire down with them. As soon as the fire hit the ground, it blazed forward, consuming all in its path until it lost strength and dissipated.

While Jerrod incinerated the forerunners of the pack, Avis drew back his spatha and sprinted forward, light as a cloud on his feet. He barely made a sound as he moved, dodging the initial blow of the first werewolf to cross his path. The boy plunged his new blade into the wolf's exposed flank, driving it home before yanking it free. And thus, the recently-forged spatha received its first taste of blood.

There was not an abundance of water in this place, so Avis resorted to using Wind, his most familiar element. He frequently used a two-handed grip on his spatha—his hands were small enough to allow this—but when he switched to a single-handed grip, he would usually use Wind with his free hand. As he yanked his spatha free, another werewolf was already leaping at him, paws outstretched. The boy whipped around to face the wolf and outstretched his hand. There was a soft rumble as the air around the werewolf suddenly compressed around it in a sort of shell, immobilizing it mid-leap. Before it could even growl in frustration, Avis sprinted past it and delivered a quick, sharp swipe with the very tip of his blade, opening the beast's throat.

The wolf's corpse thudded to the cobblestones as it died, the magic holding it in the air having been released.

Another pair of werewolves jumped Avis at the same time, with even more of their brethren close behind. Avis stepped towards one of the werewolves as it leaped, gripping his blade with both hands and slicing it upwards, shearing the beast's forelegs off. Having nothing to brace its fall, the werewolf hit the ground on its head, which bent to the side with a sickening crack. The boy spun around on one foot. After he cut off that wolf's forelegs, he did not cease the stroke; as he turned about, he brought the sword around and thrust it forward and downward, catching the second werewolf right in the back of the neck, practically spearing it to the street. It had not been a killing blow, but it had been a fatal one.

Something Jerrod had taught to Avis during their long days of training in the Virid Swamp was that combat against multiple opponents was not a series of one-on-one duels. It was not a matter of dispatching one enemy before moving to the next. In a situation like this, he had to be formless. He could not stop moving; to remain still, stationary would result in instant death. He had to be constantly fending off attacks from all sides while waiting for weaknesses to appear in his enemies' defenses, and then _acting_ on those weaknesses. Master swordsmen in the thick of battle almost appeared to be performing an elaborate dance, rather than a fight for their lives.

Under Jerrod's tutelage, Avis could easily be considered one of the more skilled fighters in Gielinor—he was Mahjarrat, after all. War flowed through his veins. But Mahjarrat or not, master swordsmen had become masters not only through their skill, but also through their experience. Avis still had a little ways to go before he could be considered a master, but he was further along than most. He forced himself to remain calm; if he moved too fast, he would start making mistakes.

He was doing fine for the first minute or so, but then he eventually gutted a downed werewolf and took too long to recover, and another werewolf darted in under his displaced guard and sank its teeth into Avis's side. The boy threw his head back and screamed until his throat went raw, but was cut off when another beast swiped him across the back, shredding his vest, as well as the flesh underneath, sending him stumbling forward.

Rage boiled up from deep within his chest, making it feel like his heart was a burning coal, fueled by the red-hot pain pulsing through his back and side. Avis bared his teeth and thrust his spatha forward at the beast that had laid open his back, spearing it right through the mouth, ignoring the blood that spattered across his face. The boy withdrew the blade from the one werewolf's mouth and inverted it, moving as if to thrust it backwards, under his arm. Instead of going under his arm, however, he plunged it into the neck of the beast that was biting him on the side.

Avis did not have to pull his spatha free; the dead werewolf simply fell off the blade. Avis grasped the blade with both hands and brought it over and down in an overhead strike, cleaving into another charging werewolf's skull, sending bits of bone and brain matter everywhere. Jerrod would have cautioned Avis against descending into rage, but the boy was not exactly in his right mind. He was frustrated with the fact that he was having trouble with his training, he was tired of being constantly hunted all across Gielinor, he was tired of leaving death and destruction everywhere he went, and he was _especially_ tired of running. He began to lose track of himself; the only things in existence were his blade, and the werewolves' weaknesses. Everything else was void.

Avis hacked, and he stabbed, and he slashed like there was no tomorrow. His face and chest felt wet, and some part of his mind was aware that it was not from sweat. He was also aware of an odd noise that accompanied his bloodbath, that always seemed to be there in the background no matter how many werewolves he cut down. It took Avis a while to realize that it was his own laughter. He was _enjoying_ himself. He had been raised as a Human, had grown up with Humans…but this had to be some part of his mind that was undeniably Mahjarrat. After experiencing such sensations, it was not hard for Avis to see why most Mahjarrat were the way they were.

Then Avis's rage returned. He did not want to become like the rest of his race. He'd had a perfectly nice life, back in Ullek… He'd had friends, he'd had Farrah, he'd had the freedom of an entire city to live in…and then two Gods who'd read a dumb prophecy on some magical stone had to ruin everything, forcing him to run from one end of Gielinor to the other, constantly in fear of capture by the forces of chaos. Almost an entire civilization from the desert…gone.

"_Enough!_" he shouted, summoning a powerful blast of wind that sent many of the nearest werewolves flying. The boy spun around and marched back up to the walls. He decided right then and there that both he and his teacher were leaving Agoras alive, and they were not going to be stopped by a damned _wall,_ of all things.

The boy could feel the power of the element he needed flowing through him, welling up, as if it were begging to be released. Avis obliged. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, stomping his foot down to the ground, clenching his hand into a fist and punching it forward. He invoked Earth. The cobblestones rattled, and a series of medium-sized cracks appeared towards the base of the walls. Undeterred, Avis took another step forward, stomping his other foot to the ground, punching forward with _both_ fists.

A long crack appeared in the cobblestones, running up to the wall, where the smaller cracks deepened and widened, combining to form much larger fissures. Avis maintained his hold over the walls, sweating profusely from the effort, but he was not finished. He took one last step forward, closing the gap, and struck the walls themselves. That was the final blow; with that last surge of power, the fissures in the wall widened to the point of no return, sending massive chunks of rock blasting out the other side of the walls. It did not form a tunnel, but enough of the base of the walls had been blown away to facilitate the collapse of the upper portions.

Avis backpedaled, scrambling to get out of the path of the falling ramparts. The fighting paused as the walls came down. The dust settled to reveal the gap in the walls, the ruins forming a makeshift ramp to the outside. The boy stood there, staring at what he had done, until Jerrod slapped him on the upside of his head, bringing him back to his senses.

"I'll give you a pat on the back later, boy!" Jerrod exclaimed. "We have to go, _NOW!_"

Avis moved to follow his mentor, but only made it five paces before falling to his knees. Now that he was no longer going berserk, he could feel the pain of his wounds all too well. The bite on his side had to be healed, and soon. "Master! Help me…"

"_Piss and blood,_" the Cleric swore, stopping to assist his pupil. He grabbed Avis under the arms and hauled him to his feet. He then crouched down and allowed Avis to climb onto his back, and he carried his pupil the rest of the way; up the ruined wall, down the other side to the grass beyond.

The Cleric set off at a run, making for the trees in the distance. He probably would have ran faster than he'd ever run in his whole life if he hadn't been weighed down, but he still traversed the fields with great speed. Avis lost consciousness not long after they cleared the walls, most likely from blood loss. Unfortunately, Jerrod did not make it very far before a giant ball of fire suddenly slammed into the ground right in his path, forcing him to stop so abruptly that he nearly fell flat on his face.

The smoke cleared to reveal a beautiful, scarlet-eyed woman in a red cloak. Most men would no doubt have been enraptured with their first glance at the woman, but Jerrod knew better. Her face, like Avis's, was a mere mask. She was one of the most dangerous creatures alive in Gielinor…and Jerrod had done more than his fair share to earn her everlasting ire.

Enakhra smiled. It was not a genuine smile, however… It was cold, did not reach her eyes. "Lightbringer," she said as she smiled.

Jerrod gave a quiet sigh, taking a step back. "Enakhra… Why can you never just say 'Hello' like a normal person? The werewolves were a little over the top, don't you think?"

"Not 'over the top' enough, obviously," Enakhra countered. "You made it out of the town."

"Yes… Yes, I suppose we did. Well it was nice chatting with you, anyway, but if you'll excuse me," Jerrod moved to circle around Enakhra, "I have things to do."

"Sorry, old man," Enakhra blocked Jerrod's path once again. She nodded at the unconscious blood-soaked boy on Jerrod's back. "Much as I would love to leave you to your own devices… I'm afraid you have something of mine."

Jerrod hesitated, pretending to think about it for a few moments. "No… No, I don't think I do."

"He is my son, Jerrod. I am merely reclaiming that which is already mine."

"What, so you can break his mind, make him into another one of your master's pawns?" Jerrod snapped, the tip of his anger broaching the surface of his emotions. "You call that being a good mother?"

"And what is he now, but a pawn for Saradomin?" Enakhra retorted. "Do you really think your precious God cares about him? Were it not for that Prophecy, Saradomin himself would likely have killed him, considering the boy's-"

"He does not follow Saradomin, he follows _me,_" Jerrod corrected her. "And I follow no God."

Enakhra broke some of the tension with her laughter. "Oh, really? This, coming from someone who was raised on Entrana, who served as a Priori of the Church?"

"That was then. This is now."

The she-Mahjarrat's brow twitched once, a single slip-up in the otherwise flawless veneer of her outward state of behavior, barely noticeable. But Jerrod saw it, saw that she was growing impatient. "I grow weary of these games, Lightbringer. You may be able to put a good spin on your words, but that is all you have left. Give me back my son, Jerrod, and I will give you a quick death."

"Well, ignoring that nice, fat little lie about a quick death, you're wrong on one count; I _do_ have one thing left…" the Cleric reached inside the inner pocket of his cloak, produced his cloth money purse. He held it out to Enakhra, jangling it enticingly. "I still have this."

The she-Mahjarrat arched a brow. She knew that the _Cleric_ knew that offering to bribe her was a bad joke at best…but all the same, she could not help but be curious as to how he tried to weasel his way out of his current predicament with gold coins. Like a cat, she enjoyed playing with her food before feasting. "You are joking," she said, more a statement of fact than a question.

"Well, not entirely," the Cleric shrugged, nonchalantly opening his purse and letting a few coins slip out through his fingers. He then snapped into action, moving so fast his hands were like a blur. He reached into the cloth money pouch and drew out a small piece of clay. It was very warm to the touch, covered in very fine writing. It was a last-resort tool, something Jerrod had made in the Virid Swamp in case he ever ran out of all other options. "Maybe that was a purse, but who ever said anything about money?"

And with that, before Enakhra could react, Jerrod threw the clay tablet down at his feet and shattered it, releasing the teleportation spell contained within. He felt a moment of extreme lightheadedness, followed by the feeling of getting sucked into a vortex…and then the world suddenly shifted. Enakhra, the burning town, the grassy fields—all of them melted into a colorful blur before reforming as trees, underbrush, shrubbery, a trickling stream.

The prepared spell had only teleported them about half a league, but it was far enough away to get them into the forests, where Jerrod would much more easily be able to evade Enakhra if she gave chase. He was not going to stick around to find out whether or not she would give chase—the moment he was back on solid ground, the Cleric set off running, weaving his way through the trees.

There was a small river not terribly far to the southeast; the Cleric decided he would head there. At the river, he could heal Avis and stop his bleeding. Then they could rest and recover for a day or two before continuing their journey.

Jerrod shook his head, forcing all thoughts of the future from his mind. For now, getting to the river was the one and only thing that mattered.

* * *

In the moment Jerrod brandished the clay teleportation tablet, Enakhra knew she had lost him. Once again, she had grown overconfident. Despite repeatedly assuring herself that she would not underestimate the thrice-damned man, she had ended up doing exactly that. And now Jerrod was on the loose once again, and her son with him.

A fiery wrath enveloped her heart as her frustration threatened to explode. She glanced back at the burning town of Agoras. She could see the town's former inhabitants fleeing into the forests, and she considered venting her frustration on the little insects…but ultimately decided against it. There was no time for venting.

And, to be truthful, it was not like the Lightbringer and her son had dropped entirely off the face of the world. Avis needed to master the four elements, but only the first three elements had been Awakened inside him. He still needed to go to the Fire Temple in order to Awaken the Fourth Element. Enakhra knew this—after all, it had been how she had deduced that they were in the northeast to begin with; she knew that the Earth Temple had been in the region, and had managed to track the Cleric and her son from there.

She knew Jerrod's eventual destination, as well as the direction in which he would be traveling. This still left her with the advantage. But still…she grew weary of having the Cleric manage to slip through her fingers. Perhaps it was time for her to swallow her pride and acquire some assistance. Mentally, she ran through her list of possible allies.

Her first thought was to go to Hazeel, one of the most powerful members of her race, but she kept forgetting that he had been killed a couple decades ago by Gnaeus Carnillean Agrippa, the father of the Kandarin Province's current proconsul, with the assistance Jerrod the Lightbringer and the current Centralian Warmaster. He was not completely dead, of course; merely in a deep, regenerative coma…but nevertheless, he would not be fighting anything or anyone for the next few thousand years.

Who else, then? _Bilrach?_ Sure, the grubby little brute was not short on loyalty…but he was hopelessly lost when dragged out of his precious tunnels. _Lamistard?_ Too much of a weakling. There was Lucien, of course…but Enakhra doubted he'd want to be bothered. He was always too busy trying to find that blasted staff… There was Ralvash, but he was not an individual of particularly great power…and, off the record, Enakhra found him rather ugly and tended to avoid him like the plague. Then there was Karshai…but Enakhra had her doubts about him. Sure, he labeled himself a Zamorackian, but Enakhra suspected he was merely going along with the majority. She simply could not read him, and she did not want to rely on someone who she knew virtually nothing about.

With Hazeel 'dead', there was no one else who Enakhra considered powerful enough to help her finally corner the Lightbringer. Except, of course, for _him_… The thought alone of asking_ him_ for help was enough to make Enakhra sick to her stomach. She mulled it over for a few minutes, but ultimately decided that she had no other choice. After all, if she came up empty-handed one more time, there were bound to be severe consequences. Her master was depending on her, and she could not afford to fail him. And so, she decided to sacrifice a small portion of her pride in order to accomplish what had to be one of the most important—if not,_ the_ most important task in the entire war.

The she-Mahjarrat gave a quiet sigh as she prepared to teleport away. She knew the long-winded, arrogant fool would never let her forget this.

_And if he asks me to mate with him _one_ more time_…

Enakhra's brow twitched again as she vanished into a flash of indigo light.


	21. Chapter 21: Centralian Meddling

Chapter Twenty-One: Centralian Meddling

The Shogun was expressionless as he climbed to the summit of the tall hill. His face rarely ever bore any form of expression during times of battle; such was his extremely tight level of control over his own emotions. The autumn was out in full force—everywhere the Ainu military leader looked, he saw brilliant swathes of gold, red, and orange. Most of the islands of the Ainu Empire were covered with mountainous forests, and so they were always particularly colorful before the onset of winter.

At the top of the hill, the Shogun took pause, closing his eyes and breathing in through his nose, relishing the warmth of the sun on his eyelids and face. He listened to the soft breeze, the chirping of the birds flying overhead, all those little sounds of life that resounded through the forests. And then, opening his eyes, the Shogun looked to the distance and saw Kātayō, the capital city of the Empire.

The sprawling city's wooden buildings almost looked golden in the late afternoon sunlight. Beyond the city, the waters of the bay glittered. Fishing vessels could be seen sailing back into the harbor from the ocean beyond. Banners could also be seen waving on the ramparts of the city walls, which were manned by soldiers from the city garrison.

The Shogun knew that he would be facing upwards of seven thousand enemy troops in the city, but that was only if he managed to gain entry to the capital. No, his real problem was the army under Kurosawa Ukitei, Daimyo of the Ushu Han, which was the largest and most powerful province of Arokyo—the second-largest island of the Ainu Empire, after the prime island of Oēn itself. Kurosawa, unfortunately, had not been among the Daimyo who had sided with the Shogun. What he had done instead was to rally his own forces. The powerful daimyo had then spurred many of the other Daimyo of Arokyo to assemble their forces, as well…and then, this combined Arokyoai Army, numbering close to twenty thousand strong—including samurai, regular soldiers, and conscripts—marched to their ports and boarded a fleet of fishing vessels.

It was the goal of this army to _stop_ the forces led by the Shogun, which were roughly two-thirds that size. Arokyo was also the northernmost island in the empire, so the Shogun had had no idea that Kurosawa had been mustering his forces until recently.

The Shogun's scouts reported that Kurosawa's army was landing at Daichyi, on the other side of Oēn. If the Centralian Praetor's plan failed, then the Shogun would have to capture the city through conventional means…and he would have to do it before Kurosawa arrived, which would give him roughly half a month.

The Shogun was not alone on the hilltop, looking to the capital. There were two others with him; Arald Harcourt, the navarch of the Centralian warship _Silver Arrow,_ and Tojimoro Hirigake—Daimyo of the Owara Han of Ryukyu, and the Shogun's de facto second-in-command. Niten, the Shogun's _actual_ second-in-command, was hiding inside the capital with the Centralian Praetor, his marines, and the Itoan shamans, waiting for the signal to implement the Praetor's plan.

"We come full circle," the Shogun stated, shielding his eyes from the sun. "A fitting end, if I am fated to die in this place."

Tojimoro hummed in agreement, but Harcourt remained silent. The Centralian naval captain had no intentions of dying here, but he knew better than to say this to his Ainu companions. They would interpret it as cowardice—their warriors did not view battle the same way the Legions did. Everything revolved around honor—retreating was dishonorable, ambushes were dishonorable, covert tactics were dishonorable; the rigidity of it all made Harcourt's head spin. These people were excellent swordsmen and mages, but they had clearly never dealt with creatures of darkness constantly attacking their borders. Throughout Centralia's turbulent history, 'honor' had quickly given way to survival instinct.

"Tojimoro_-san,_ what news of Kurosawa?" the Shogun asked his subordinate, speaking in Commonspeak out of respect for Harcourt, not turning away from the view of the capital in the distance.

"The latest report spoke of Kurosawa landing the last of his forces at Daichyi," Tojimoro informed the older man. "His vanguard is already marching into the Omasa Hills."

The Shogun exhaled through his nose, taking this news in stride. "He moves faster than I would have expected."

"He drives his men to the brink of exhaustion, no doubt," Captain Harcourt remarked.

The Shogun glanced at the Centralian momentarily, finally turning away from the sun. He raised an eyebrow at the foreigner's statement, and replied simply with, "He drives them no faster than he drives himself."

The Shogun stepped past the others, making his way back down the hill. Even through the colorful canopy of the forest, he could see his army marching through the trees, making its way towards the capital. His force was a highly irregular army—comprised of the core group of warriors who had joined him in exile on Ito, the forces of several of the Greater Clans of the main islands, as well as many of the Lesser Clans from the outlying isles. Combined armies were not necessarily unprecedented—they had existed at many points throughout history—but they certainly were not an everyday occurrence.

The Ainu Empire had an Imperial Army, but the Imperial Army was not necessarily the central military—it was merely the army of the Sun Emperor's clan, the ruling clan of Ainuido. It would be like if, instead of having the Royal Legions, Centralia instead possessed several smaller armies, each from a different province. In the end, it really illustrated the difference between Ainuido and Centralia at its simplest level—the Centralian King was more powerful than the Sun Emperor, but the Ainu Daimyo were more powerful than the Centralian Proconsuls. The Ainu government was not as centralized.

A new thought occurred to the Shogun then, as he pondered the irregularity of his combined army. If the Centralian Praetor's plan was successful, if the Sun Emperor was cleansed and restored; if the Ainu answered the call of the West…it might just be the first time in history that all of Ainuido united under the Imperial banner. And what a precedent it would be…

But those subsequent thoughts, while they warmed the warrior's blood, ultimately served only to bring the Shogun's attention back to the fact that, to achieve this end, he still had to be victorious in the battle for Kātayō, which was going to be no small hurdle.

This battle was different from the countless other skirmishes the Shogun had fought in. Normally he was the epitome of calm before and during a battle, but what was so…so _maddening_ about this particular engagement was the fact that so much of it was beyond his control. It was Niten and the Centralian Praetor who held the fate of the battle in their hands. The Shogun's upcoming attack on the walls of the capital was, in essence, a glorified diversion. The Shogun longed to trade places with Niten, longed to lead the assault on the Sun Palace…but if he did not lead the attack on the walls, his absence would be noted by the Marshal, and the defenders would then know that something was amiss.

The Shogun headed the rest of the way down the hill. Harcourt and Tojimoro followed close behind.

The Shogun's combined army kept up its pace, marching much later into the day than it had in the past. This was because their destination was so near…and, with Kurosawa breathing down their necks, they could not afford to waste time. The Shogun had known Kurosawa in the past, always knew him to be a fiery man…one who was at home on the battlefield. He would have made an excellent ally. Perhaps he still might, after the dust settled.

The capital could not be seen from ground level at the place where the tall hill was, so the Shogun remained at the head of the army's advance until the forest dwindled away and the walls of Kātayō became visible. There was about a league or so of open fields between the eaves of the forest and the city walls. It was in this open stretch of land that the Shogun's samurai and soldiers moved in and set up their camps. Activity along the ramparts visibly increased, but the defenders were not exactly frenzied. After all, it would take more than skilled swordsmen to breach this part of the walls, and they could not see any siege engines attached to the Shogun's force.

As the last few groups of warriors emerged from the forest, the sun was kissing the western horizon. The Shogun wished he was on the coastline; he had always loved watching the sun set over water. Especially on days with no wind, when he would be able to see the sun's reflection in the water, crawling closer and closer to the horizon, until it touched the actual sun, and they merged into each other.

The Shogun instructed each of the Daimyo to ensure that their men got as much rest as possible, for he intended to attack early tomorrow morning. Many of the provincial leaders questioned initially whether it was wise to commence the attack so soon, before the men had had the chance to get settled in. The Shogun had simply replied that because they were now camped in front of the walls of the capital, there was nothing else standing in the way of starting the assault. It would be dishonorable to continue to delay, leaving their Emperor in the grip of Zamorak longer than necessary.

Harcourt had to admit that he was in a bit over his head when he tried to fully comprehend the inner workings of the combined army—he was at home on the high seas, fighting with the winds. Sure, his men were making perhaps the most important contribution to the Shogun's army, but that placed him only in a nominal command position…he was a naval captain without a ship. Still…the Shogun seemed to take an interest in him, though Harcourt could not imagine why. Perhaps it was simply a fascination with foreigners.

After nightfall, the warriors clumped together around their campfires, taking in as much warmth as they could to ward against the cold Novtumber night. The Shogun held out his hands toward the flames, dispelling the chill that had started to settle in his fingers. Captain Harcourt sat next to him, for the time being. As they sat around the fire, listening to naught but the sound of the crickets, one of the lesser Daimyo—the Lord of Eido, if Harcourt wasn't mistaken—produced some sort of short, wooden pipe. He rubbed it down with a soft cloth before putting it to his lips and playing.

From the Ainu man's calm breath and the movement of his fingers came a soft, but firm tune, rising from the end of the pipe to dance among the leaves and critters of the treetops. After a minute or so, more pipes could be heard from some of the other camps, playing in harmony with the lesser Daimyo's tune. Captain Harcourt closed his eyes and listened to the music. It was quite different from the music of his home. The notes all sounded…sharp? Contrasting? Harcourt was no musician, so he did not know how to accurately describe the music. The best word that came to mind was, simply, _exotic_.

Though, no doubt, the Ainu would likely think the same for Centralian music.

The tune took the Centralian's imagination to faraway realms, places of spice and mirth, of light and adventure. For a brief half-hour, Harcourt was able to escape the impending battle by turning his thoughts away from this world. But, unfortunately, the music could not last forever. Eventually, the Daimyo of Eido ceased playing and stowed his pipe. The other pipers stopped as well, no longer having a central melody to follow.

After a few minutes of silence, Captain Harcourt rose to take his leave.

"With the rising of the sun comes a new day…and new hope," the Shogun said, staring into the heart of the flames. He looked up at the Centralian navarch, offering a single nod. "Rest well."

"_Shogun,_" Harcourt bowed in respect to the Ainu military leader before turning away from the fire and stalking off into the darkness that separated the camps. He passed by several of the other clusters of tents before he arrived at the camp occupied by members of his crew from the _Silver Arrow_. The entire crew had not accompanied their navarch inland. Harcourt had left Naevius, his second-in-command, in charge of the ship, along with an appropriately-sized skeleton crew. Naevius had orders to sail the _Arrow_ through the Haku Straits and down around the western coast of Oēn, where he would hold position until further notice.

"Captain, sir," Eviss, the master-at-arms, offered Harcourt a quick salute. The other sailors sitting around the fire acknowledged his presence with grunts and nods. This kind of informality would never have been allowed if they were still on the _Silver Arrow,_ but Captain Harcourt had quickly instructed the men that they did not have to stand at attention every time he joined them for as long as they were marching. That would have gotten irritating really fast. By now, the men were still respectful of their captain's presence, but in a much more informal manner.

"Any word on the attack, captain?" one of the senior ratings asked.

"Aye," Harcourt nodded, walking up to the fire, soaking up some last-minute warmth before turning in for the night. "We attack with the sun. Mister Eviss, I trust our…_contributions_…are ready for battle?"

"That they are, sir," Eviss nodded, tugging at the corner of his mustache. "Inspected every one of them myself less than an hour ago."

"Very good," the Navarch said. He paused, covering his face to mask a yawn. "They say the Ainu are absolutely fearless in battle. But when tomorrow comes… I am certain that we will make the Marshal sweat. Make sure you lads all get plenty of rest. Saradomin protect us."

Bidding his men goodnight, the naval captain retired to his tent. He shed his overcoat, stripping down to his underclothes, and crawled into his bedroll. After marching quite literally from sunup 'til sundown, Captain Harcourt was ready to rest. After he closed his eyes, sleep claimed him within a single minute.

* * *

Akai Hanako, the Emperor's Marshal, fought down the weariness inside of him as he stepped out of the Sun Palace and into the chilled darkness of the pre-dawn morning. He had just finished giving his latest report to the Sun Emperor, concerning the army that was camped outside the capital's eastern walls. The Sun Emperor, ever since the Darkness had tainted his soul, no longer seemed to sleep. A consequence of this was that the Marshal was just as likely to be summoned by his Emperor in the wee hours of the night as he was during the day.

The Marshal exchanged silent nods with the samurai guarding the palace entrance. He descended the stairs that wound down the tall hill upon which the Sun Palace was built, heading down into the city below. The streets of Kātayō were quiet at this time of morning. Soon, the fishermen would awaken and head to their boats, rushing to collect as much fish as they could before winter set in. Soon, the monks and shamans would heard performing their morning chants to welcome the rising sun.

But in the hours before these events came to pass…the capital was mostly asleep. _Mostly_ asleep only because a portion of the soldiers and samurai of the Imperial Army were awake and manning the city walls, and this disturbed the quiescence just enough to prevent the capital from being described as 'silent'.

The fishermen were emerging from their homes even as the Marshal walked through the streets. The commoners all bowed to the Marshal respectfully as he passed by, but he paid them no heed; he wanted to get to the walls as fast as he could. He always felt uneasy whenever he was called away from the walls; he knew the Shogun was down there, somewhere, leading that army…and he always felt that something would go horribly wrong if he was not personally there to head up the defense.

But the Sun Emperor, as well as the samurai and soldiers serving under the Marshal, was not overly alarmed at the arrival of this combined army. The walls of Kātayō had repelled countless attacks in the past, and the Imperials simply did not believe the Shogun's forces would succeed where so many other opposing armies had failed. This did not mean they would grow lax in their defense of the capital, but desperation would remain an unknown sensation to them. They knew the Shogun posed a danger, but it would not be a severe danger. Men would die in the coming battle—such was the way of war—but in the end, when the dust settled, the capital would still be whole.

Ultimately, it was not even a waiting game. If the walls held, which they would, then within two weeks' time the Shogun's forces would be torn apart by the arrival of Kurosawa Ukitei.

It was not long before sunrise by the time Akai arrived on the eastern walls, overlooking the approach from the inland hills. The sky had gone from the star-sprinkled void of nighttime to a deep, navy blue. Not too much longer 'til sunrise, now. The Marshal made his rounds, speaking with the section commanders along the ramparts. He spent over an hour conferring with his on-duty troops, while establishing a system of runners to relay messages from himself to the section commanders, if necessary. He surveyed the defenses—the state of the battlements, the murder-holes, the catapults and their ammunition, the boulder chutes, the giant cauldrons of oil, and all of the other myriad elements that made up the defense of the city walls.

By the time he finished his inspections, the eastern skies had brightened to a shade of azure blue, with a deep red glow cresting over the horizon. Something in the Marshal's gut told him that battle would fall upon them today. Many of the others believed the Shogun would wait another day to give his army a chance to rest—after all, they must have been marching all day long, yesterday, in order to arrive at the capital only a day after they had crushed the border forts. They had to be exhausted.

But Akai Hanako knew the Shogun too well. The Marshal knew that the old warrior was fighting to capture the city in order to attempt to rid the Sun Emperor of his Darkness. This was the reason why the Empire was embroiled in civil war—the rebels believed that it would be heresy to allow the Emperor to live as a slave to the Darkness that had taken ahold over him; while the loyalists believed that _any_ action taken against the Emperor, even with the intent of _aiding_ him, would be heretical.

Simply knowing his opponent's motivation was enough to tell the Marshal that the Shogun would not wait another day. He would consider it dishonorable to spend a day resting, idle while his Emperor was so close by. No, the Shogun would attack today, and he would attack soon.

The Marshal flicked his gaze back up to the horizon. The red glow had brightened to amber. The sun was barely a hair away from showing itself. "With the rising of the sun comes a new day…" he murmured. And, like an illuminating light going off over his head, he knew that the Shogun's attack was going to come much sooner than he would have originally expected.

It was coming right _now_.

Even before the Marshal could open his mouth to speak, the sun started to peek over the eastern horizon, sending the first rays of sunlight into the Ainu Empire. Barely a heartbeat after the sunlight struck the very top of the Sun Palace, there was a soft hissing sound. A bright light soared into the sky from the edge of the woods, followed closely by a second, then a third. Suddenly, hundreds, thousands of lights hissed into the sky. Flaming arrows, leaving tiny trails of smoke hanging in the air. "Look to the skies, men!" the Marshal bellowed at the top of his lungs the moment he saw the first arrow clear the woods. "Cover! _Cover!_"

The cry was echoed up and down the ramparts, and the soldiers all dropped to their knees, hunkering against the battlements in order to shield themselves from the volley of arrows. Many were able to get to cover in time…but there were a lot of men who were not quite so fast. Soldiers fell all along the walls, writhing on the ground, clutching at the arrow shafts that protruded from their bodies. Many of them did not move at all.

The Marshal pushed himself to the front of the ramparts. He did not duck for cover with the others—commanders had to stand tall in the face of death. Even so, it nearly cost him—one of the arrows actually struck him in the shoulder, but the armor plate was able to deflect it. Still… the Marshal sensed that he was going to get a sizeable bruise from the hit. The man next to him was not so lucky—he took an arrow to the throat, which was one of the parts of his body that was unprotected by his armor.

The unfortunate man slumped forward over the battlement he stood behind. The Marshal reached forward and checked for the man's pulse. Finding none, he pulled the dead man's body from the battlements, not wanting to fight next to a corpse.

Immediately after the initial volley of arrows, a deafening cry rolled up from the woods, and a seething mass of warriors sprinted out from the cover of the trees and into the open fields that separated the city from the forest. They ran like the wind, swords and spears glinting in the nascent sunlight. Daimyo and their retainers could be seen on horseback, moving about the fields, keeping their men from splaying out too far. Other warriors could be seen bearing tall ladders that must have been constructed from felled trees in the woods.

The Marshal frowned at this. Though he had known the Shogun well enough to predict how and when he would attack… Akai had to admit that he felt some measure of confusion towards this fight. The Shogun's armies possessed no siege equipment—his scouts had been very clear about that fact in their reports. Did the Shogun really expect to storm the walls with just siege ladders? No towers, no trebuchets, no onagers, no means of building a sapper's mine…

The Shogun's iron sense of honor could, at times, cause him to act in a way that could be described by most other men as 'unusual', but he was certainly not suicidal. After he left the capital and entered his self-imposed exile, the Shogun had worked to maintain his ties with the daimyo, as well as raising an army of his own. He had accomplished this in remarkably little time…but he had not attacked until recently. He had waited nearly four years, and the Marshal had been certain that this was because the Shogun knew that he had very little chance of breaching the walls of Kātayō with a conventional attack. But now, the Shogun attacked the capital in earnest…and Akai could not see how the Shogun's chances of success could have increased.

So why, then, would the Shogun wait four years for what had to be some sort of 'right moment'…only to commence an attack that would inevitably fail? His army was well-trained, the daimyo loyal to his cause would have answered his call whenever he issued it…so why the wait? What advantage or weapon did the Shogun have today that he did not have four years ago?

The Marshal did not have the answers, and this was maddening to him. But there would be time enough for deep thinking later; right now, he had to focus on repelling the attackers.

Akai Hanako thrust a hand into the air and shouted, "_Volley!_"

The archers stationed on and behind the ramparts nocked their arrows and drew back their bowstrings, waiting for the command to fire. Once the Marshal gave the command, every single one of those bows released in unison with a resounding _twang,_ sending a hail of arrows over the walls and into the charging mass of warriors. Dozens of rebels fell to the defenders' volley, but the attackers lost no momentum.

After giving the order for the archers to fire at will, the Marshal sent several runners off the walls to the supervisors overseeing the giant cauldrons of oil. The supervisors would begin transferring the oil to the buckets, which would be carried up to the murder-holes on the ramparts.

After the first few minutes of mayhem, the siege ladders reached the walls. The Marshal could hear the warriors below grunting with exertion as they lifted the ladders and stood them upright before allowing them to crash into the battlements. Almost immediately after the first ladders came into contact with the walls, enemy warriors were streaming up the crude rungs, eager to engage the defenders in close combat.

The Marshal was happy to oblige. He drew his katana from its scabbard, executing a brief drill with the blade before hurrying off in the direction of the nearest ladder. He got there just as the first attacker reached the top of the ladder, only to get impaled by one of the defending spearmen. The spearman yanked his weapon free, but was too slow—before he could recover, the second enemy on the ladder threw a spear of his own, catching the defending spearman in the chest. The death of his comrade avenged, the second enemy drew his sword and leaped onto the ramparts, cutting down the next spearman to strike at him.

Noticing the Marshal, the enemy samurai kicked a third man in the groin, incapacitating him, before letting out a raw-throated shout and charging the commander of the defenses. The Marshal blocked the enemy samurai's blow and stepped forward, striking the other man on the helmet, causing him to stagger back. The Marshal pressed his advantage, knocking the other samurai's blade aside with a lightning-fast strike, then following up with a quick slash to the man's throat.

The samurai fell to his knees, choking on his own blood. The Marshal pushed him aside and stepped past, making for the ladder. Two more of the enemy samurai's comrades had reached the ramparts, and a third was already getting to the top of the ladder.

The attackers were not samurai, however; merely common soldiers. Not to say they were inexperienced, but they were certainly no match in close combat for someone like the Marshal. Akai Hanako quickly dispatched the first soldier, slashing him across a leg before finishing him off with a heel to the windpipe. Somewhat lacking in finesse, but effective nonetheless.

A second man swung for the Marshal's head, but Akai ducked to avoid the blow, spinning round on his left foot and planting his right one into the enemy soldier's stomach. The other man was sent reeling back, his arms windmilling. Before he had a chance to regain his footing, however, he was skewered by one of the loyalist samurai and pushed off the edge of the walls.

"_Spear!_" Akai exclaimed. One of his soldiers quickly handed him the requested weapon, and the Marshal hopped up onto the battlements. He crouched down and seized the rails of the ladder, heaving them forward as far as he could. It was not far enough to topple the ladder, however, so he inverted the spear and braced the ladder with the shaft of the weapon, shoving it forward. The spear's length was enough to allow the Marshal to push the ladder the rest of the way, but with the weight of the warriors still trying to scale it, the Marshal found that he lacked the strength to follow through.

Fortunately, the man who had lent Akai the spear quickly noticed the Marshal's struggling, and he joined his superior on the battlements, seized the upper half of the spear, added his strength. With the combined efforts of the two men, they were able to push the ladder back far enough for gravity to take hold and bring it crashing back down to the ground, shattering most of the wooden rungs.

The fighting dragged on. The Marshal moved from one ladder to the next, fought off enemy after enemy, quickly losing track of how many he killed or maimed. His only indication of how long he had been fighting was the sun's progress through the sky. Before long, he called up the men who had been waiting in reserve at the base of the walls, and they joined in the melee on the ramparts. While this was enough to swiftly turn the tide against the onslaught of rebels, who had been gradually gaining several footholds, the Marshal soon saw that the fight was far from over.

The rebels were holding strong further to the south, about half a kilometer from the Marshal's current position. Akai Hanako, satisfied that the rebel threat at this part of the wall was under control, sheathed his katana and set off down the ramparts at a breakneck sprint. There were still many isolated fights happening all throughout the ramparts, which the Marshal was careful to avoid. He also had to watch his footing, as the battlements had become littered with wounded men, as well as the remains of those who had given the ultimate sacrifice for their Emperor—both rebel and imperial alike.

As he neared the rebels' main pocket, he saw that the reason they had managed to carve out such a strong foothold was because they had four ladders rigged up side-by-side, allowing for constant reinforcements. If left unchecked, they would soon be able to breach the lines of defense.

Knowing that he could not gain this victory with his sword, the Marshal resorted to more…unconventional means. He intercepted a pair of oil-bearers and seized the large bucket of boiling oil that they carried, holding it with his right hand. Had adrenaline not been roaring through his veins like a great _tsunami_ wave, he most likely would not have been capable of bearing that kind of weight on just one arm.

As it was, he was only able to lift it one-handed for a minute or so before his strength began to give out. Luckily, he was able to find the second thing he needed; a torch. Many of the torches that had been mounted on the ramparts overnight had gone out or had been knocked out of place in the fighting. The Marshal chanced upon one of the few remaining lights that had not been disturbed. He grasped it with his left hand and brought it to his mouth, clamping his teeth around the thinner end of the torch's handle. This freed up his left hand, allowing him to hold the bucket of boiling oil with all his strength.

"To the Marshal!" a booming voice thundered somewhere behind Akai Hanako as he continued to sprint toward the rebels. "Rally to the Marshal!"

Akai never found out who had rallied the men, but that person had likely just saved his life. The Marshal was ready to charge headfirst into the rebels' position, but could see now that he likely would have been cut down before even making it within ten feet of the ladders. With a dozen or so samurai charging _with_ him, however…that changed things. While the others engaged the rebels, doing their best to clear a path for their Marshal, Akai stepped up onto the parapet and ran along the very edge of the walls, jumping over the crenellations.

Several times, an enemy soldier attempted to slash at Akai's legs, but the Marshal was able to evade these attacks by leaping over them.

More loyalists who had seen the Marshal running in this direction joined the fight, forcing most of the rebels to keep their attention firmly fixed on holding their position. Archers began targeting the rebels, and men started to fall once more, feathered shafts sprouting from their armor.

Finally, the Marshal reached the ladders. He did not hesitate—planting his feet firmly and crouching down a little to lower his center of gravity, Akai lifted the bucket of boiling oil and heaved it as hard as he could, sending the burning hot liquid flying. The oil struck three of the four ladders; the Marshal's throw had not been strong enough to reach the fourth. But no matter; one ladder was easier to handle than four. The Marshal cast aside the empty bucket and pulled the torch from his mouth, holding it down to the rungs of the first ladder.

The upper reaches of the ladder, still dripping with oil, burst into flame. This prevented the rebels below from continuing their ascent; their hands would burn when they grasped the flaming rungs, which would render them unable to use their weapons. And soon, the fires would cause the ladder to disintegrate. The Marshal repeated this process with the other two oil-laden ladders. He ended up killing two men on the second ladder, and then another on the third, as they found themselves suddenly consumed by hungry flames.

As for the fourth ladder, the Marshal did not have to worry. Four loyalist spearmen were already heaving it off the battlements, using their spears much in the same manner as the Marshal had done further to the north. Because there were four of them, though, it did not take them nearly as much time to topple the ladder as it had for the Marshal.

There were still a handful of ladders left standing, scattered at many different points along the walls, but they were largely contained. After the rebels' foothold crumbled, the fire of their attack seemed to diminish. Eventually, the surviving rebels still on the ramparts returned to their ladders and actually climbed back _down_. This puzzled the Marshal even further—those samurai would never retreat from a fight like this unless the Shogun himself had ordered them to do so.

Unfortunately, the Marshal soon got his answer. His questions of why the Shogun had waited so long before attacking, of the manner in which the Shogun was assaulting the walls, of why the rebel samurai were retreating—all these questions had the same answer: the _Centralians_. Four years ago, the Shogun had not possessed Centralian aid. This initial attack had served to lull the defenders into a false sense of security, of knowing that the rebels would not take the walls. But this had only distracted them while the Shogun deployed his ace in the hole.

The Marshal saw them emerge from the woods in a neat line. The Ainu Empire was well on the way to discovering their own equivalents to these weapons, but the technique had not quite yet been perfected. They did not even have a true name in Kurigana, the language of the Ainu, so the Marshal simply used their Commonspeak name.

"Cannons…" the Marshal murmured, a claw of uncertainty worming its way into his heart. The Shogun had _cannons_ supporting his army. How had his scouts missed this? How had the Shogun kept them a secret? He must have disguised them with his supply wagons, and he obviously had not used them throughout his entire march to the capital, saving them for this very moment.

And the moment the Marshal saw the cannons, the last pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. He remembered Iulus Fernandos, the Praetor of Centralia. He had come to Kātayō in an effort to secure the aid of the Ainu people in the war against Zamorak. He had come too late, however; the Sun Emperor was already tainted by the Dark One. The Emperor had made the Marshal order his men to subdue the Praetor in the throne room, and then imprison him. Later that night, a tiny force of the Shogun's samurai had infiltrated the Sun Palace, and they had spirited the Praetor away.

After the Centralian warship fought its way out of the bay and into the ocean beyond, the Marshal had heard absolutely nothing about them. It was as if they had simply vanished into the mist, gone to another world. But those rebel samurai who had rescued the Praetor…they must have directed the Centralians to the Shogun's place of exile. And then the Shogun must have succeeded in convincing the Praetor to help him take the capital. They had obviously stripped the Centralian warship of its cannons, and then brought the artillery along with them as they marched across Oēn.

All of a sudden, the certainty of holding the walls had evaporated. The defenders saw that those cannons had a good chance of breaching their defenses.

The cannons had been deployed in formation, in line with the capital's eastern gate. The Marshal watched the cannons draw closer and closer to the walls, moved along by the light-skinned foreigners. He summoned a runner and, after taking a deep breath, instructed the young man to summon the entire army. There were thousands of men still in the city who were not currently on duty—they would rotate out in shifts with the men currently fighting on the walls. But with the new danger of the walls possibly getting breached… The Marshal wanted every able-bodied man near the eastern walls.

The cannons drew to a halt. The gunners spent another few moments aiming and positioning their weapons before stepping aside. Akai saw a tall man dressed in what looked like a naval uniform pacing up and down the lines of his makeshift field battery. After a few more seconds of adjustments, the Centralian naval officer raised his hand to the air, and brought it down sharply. Though the Marshal could not hear him, Akai knew that the officer had just given the command to fire.

And the cannons obeyed. Fire and smoke roared out of the barrels of the artillery weapons as they all opened fire with an ear-shattering, thunderous explosion that could rival the fury of a typhoon. The Marshal could only watch helplessly as the opening barrage of cannonfire slammed into the eastern gate, shattering the loyalists' certainty of a swift victory.

* * *

The explosion was heard all throughout the capital. Even underground.

Lord Fernando had just woken up ten or fifteen minutes ago, and he was in the process of boiling water over the stovetop for water. It was part of his morning ritual, making coffee. Were it not for his routines, he would have lost his sanity a long while ago; he had been stuck in this underground chamber for _weeks_.

Niten and Mitsuyo were able to leave at regular intervals in order to pick up food and water, but Lord Fernando and Virens—one of Althos's marines from the _Silver Arrow_—were not so lucky. The Ainu Empire was relatively isolated from the rest of Gielinor, making foreigners a rare occurrence. The only Centralians who would be able to blend in with a crowd of Ainu were the ethnic Karamjai, who possessed darker skin due to the climate of their home. Unfortunately, neither Fernando nor Virens were ethnic Karamjai—their white skin would make them stick out like a Zamorackian mage on Entrana.

And so, they had been forced to wait in this small, underground saferoom, built in the bedrock that formed the foundation of the inn up above. Scattered across many different points of the capital city were additional, similar saferooms, which were serving as the hiding places of the rest of the combined Ainu-Centralian strike force. Lord Fernando was quite certain that Althos, Varro, and all the rest of the Centralian marines were every bit as anxious as he was to get out of their drafty prisons.

The signal. All they had to do was wait for the signal. Once the signal came, all the myriad splinter groups of the strike force would break cover and proceed to a rendezvous point near the Sun Palace. Once they all converged, the strike force would then attack the palace.

The signal came just as the Praetor was boiling the water for coffee. He was rifling through his bag for the coffee beans when the deep, booming explosion shattered the silence, nearly making him send the beans all over the room.

"Pendragon's cock, what in hellfire was that?" Virens mumbled as he was jerked back into the waking world, his words partially slurred from the lingering weariness.

"That, my friend, was the signal!" Lord Fernando exclaimed. Niten and Mitsuyo were already shrugging on their armor, reacting to the explosion with almost inhuman reflex. In order to catch up, Fernando and Virens had to move extra fast. They swiftly got into their armor and buckled their weapons to their belts. They all then donned long, brown cloaks to conceal their armor—this would allow them to move through the city and reach the rendezvous point without arousing too much suspicion. Virens especially needed the cloak to hide his bulky shield.

Once the four warriors were fully armed and ready to move, Mitsuyo started climbing up the ladder that scaled one of the chamber's walls. Lord Fernando brought up the rear, allowing everyone else to go first. The ladder took him up through the shaft and into a bedchamber. An inn was built over the secret chamber, and this was one of its rooms. Niten opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. He led his companions up the small flight of stairs to the ground floor, and then out the back entrance of the inn.

Lord Fernando had no way of knowing the time of day. Judging by the position of the sun, it was perhaps two hours past sunrise. The Shogun must have initiated a conventional attack on the walls before bringing up the cannons. He had told the Praetor that he was going to do something along those lines, but Fernando had not thought he would wait nearly two hours before giving the signal.

Niten and Mitsuyo led the way. This was only proper, as neither Fernando nor Virens knew the capital city like the backs of their hands. The foursome flitted from street to street. There were groups and patrols of imperials jogging down the roads, all of them heading east to the walls, hurrying to reinforce the Marshal's position. Everyone seemed to have heard the cannons.

The thunderous explosions still broke out every few minutes. Lord Fernando knew that Captain Harcourt was out there, somewhere, directing those makeshift field batteries against the eastern gate. Who knows? Maybe he would even succeed in breaching the walls, and then the Marshal would _really_ start to sweat. Anything that took the defenders' attention away from the Sun Palace would be a great help.

The palace could be seen from all parts of the city. Lord Fernando kept glancing up at the Ainu castle, waiting impatiently as it grew closer and closer. The inhabitants of the capital seemed to be staying in their homes; Niten's party did not come across very many civilians. Almost all of the other people they saw were imperial samurai and their soldiers. The fishermen had already departed, leaving only a few brave merchants and shopkeepers to populate the streets.

Lord Fernando was glad that no one took notice of them. Niten and Mitsuyo may have been able to talk them out of a fix, but a curious loyalist samurai might have wondered why the other two members of the group completely obscured themselves with cloaks and never spoke. All it would take was one quick look under the hood, one glimpse of Fernando or Virens's Centralian features…

But no one stopped them. All of the loyalist forces were fixated on the eastern walls, wanted to know what was causing the Marshal to mobilize his entire force. No one paid any mind to the four warriors running towards the heart of the city—there were dozens of runners and messengers moving back and forth between the palace, the eastern walls, and the armories. They would not attract any attention as long as they did not stop moving.

There was a golden statue of Yoakenohoshi, the legendary First Emperor, erected in the middle of the Koganeno Square—the largest marketplace of Kātayō, located in front of the gate to the inner city. The square was the rendezvous point, and the statue of the First Emperor was where Niten waited, while the rest of the group dispersed. Lord Fernando tried to linger, but Niten sent him on his way, instructing him to "_Wait for the gate_."

Lord Fernando kept to the fringes of the square. Long cloaks always looked less conspicuous in the shadows. While the Praetor meandered his way through the square, doing his best to stay away from the locals, he would catch glimpses of other cloaked figures—shady men lurking in the alleys, behind kiosks, wherever there were shadows. He was not alone.

Keeping Niten's last words to him in mind, Lord Fernando kept glancing over at the gate set into the inner city walls. Similar to the walls that separated the Royal Palace from the rest of Tethys, the Ainuin Palace was separated from the rest of Kātayō by the inner city walls, which were currently sealed. Back when Lord Fernando had hatched this plan on Ito with the leaders of the Ainu rebellion, Lord Fernando had brought up the obstacle posed by the inner walls, but Niten had assured the Praetor that his men would handle it.

Lord Fernando had not bothered to ask how they were going to handle it; Niten's word was good enough. Five minutes passed. Then ten minutes, then fifteen, twenty… Lord Fernando saw several cloaked Ainu pause at the statue of Yoakenohoshi and exchange a few brief words with Niten. Members of the other groups that made up the strike force checking in, most likely. Wouldn't want to begin the attack prematurely, when only half the force was present.

A full half-hour after Lord Fernando's arrival at Koganeno Square, the last of the strike force's section leaders checked in with Niten. Once this was done, Niten casually reached up and pulled down his hood, showing his face. He took a moment to smooth his beard before reaching under his cloak and pulling out his _kabuto,_ his helmet. The helmet had been too bulky to wear under the cloak's hood, so he'd had to conceal it.

Like the rest of his armor, Niten's kabuto was a deep maroon in color, with a bright yellow crest comprising of a sun disk and horns. The samurai leader glanced up at the gatehouse across the square for a moment, then placed the helmet onto his head. He then tied his _menpō_ over his face. The menpō, or 'facial armor', was ebony black, and it depicted a face twisted in pain. The only part of Niten's face that was still visible was his eyes.

That must have been some kind of signal, because suddenly the Praetor could hear noises coming from the gatehouse on the inner city walls. Crashes, shouts, pounding footfalls…and then the unmistakable sound of steel cutting through flesh and bone. This attracted the attention of pretty much everyone in the square—everyone knew there was fierce fighting at the eastern walls, but no one had expected to encounter any violence in front of the _palace,_ of all places.

After the noises died down, there was silence for about ten seconds, or so. Then, with a creaking tremor, the inner city gates started to open. Although Niten had not specifically stated that this was what he had meant when he'd told the Praetor to watch the gate, Lord Fernando was certain that this was what he had been waiting for.

Niten cast off his cloak, revealing his maroon armor in all its splendor. He drew his katana and pointed it up towards the Sun Palace, shouting something in rapid-fire Kurigana. Though the translation of the battle cry was lost on Lord Fernando, its meaning was still clear.

"_Now, lads, NOW!_" Althos's deep tones boomed out across the square. If the exclamation in Kurigana was not enough for the Centralians, the marine centurion's shout did the trick. All over Koganeno Square, men suddenly broke cover; threw off their cloaks, stepped out of the shadows, revealed themselves. Samurai in lacquered armor that gleamed in the sunlight, Itoan shamans in their leather armor and robes, and Centralian marines clad in full legionary battle dress; all converging on the statue of the First Emperor. Within seconds, there was a force of roughly sixty men moving through the now-open gates. It had to be one of the most bizarre coalitions Gielinor has ever seen, ever since the cooperation between Zamorackian and Saradominist forces to bring down the remnants of Zaros's old empire.

It was around a quarter of a mile's distance between the inner walls and the palace hill. There were a few houses, a forge, a couple barracks and armories that dotted the area around the palace hill, but most of the land was like a garden. Niten's strike force charged forward on a stone road that led from the inner city gate to the base of the Emperor's Stair. The road itself was clear, but there were thick woods on either side. Side paths branched off from the main road, presumably leading to those houses and the other dwellings of the inner city. Lord Fernando even thought he'd caught glimpses of what looked like artificial ponds through the trees, but he did not have time to hang around and investigate.

Alarms could be heard coming from the Sun Palace up above—the chaos at the inner city gate had not gone unnoticed. Even now, no doubt, messengers were being sent to the Marshal to request for reinforcements; but with most of the imperial army at the eastern walls, drawn by Harcourt's cannons…reinforcements would take some time to arrive.

When the strike force reached the bottom of the Emperor's Stair, they were greeted by archers. The Sun Palace always kept up a sizeable force of elite warriors to guard the Emperor…but the strike force was not composed of novices, either. It comprised of the fiercest warriors handpicked by the Shogun himself. The Itoan shamans were renowned for their magical proficiency. And the Centralian legionaries…while not nearly as skilled in single combat as the Ainu, their tactics certainly threw a wrench into the Sun Palace's defenses.

During the planning stages of this operation, Lord Fernando had argued endlessly with Niten before the veteran samurai had finally agreed that it should be the Centralians who lead the charge up the stairs. Niten always was under the impression that the attack on the palace should be led and carried out by his own men, with the Centralians in reserve. The Praetor was more than happy to let the samurai do what they did best, but his reason for wanting to lead the charge up the stairs was purely because he wanted to minimize losses…which the Centralians would be able to do.

The marines took the front, along with Rei and three of his shamans, as they started ascending the Emperor's Stair. Althos barked out an order, and his men formed up into six rows of four, with the four shamans up towards the front. They jogged up the stairs at a steady pace—neither running nor walking. Centralian legionaries could jog at this pace in full armor all day long without tiring.

A large force of the palace guards had assembled at the top of the stairs, many of them armed with bows. A sharp command was issued. The archers took aim, fired. Lord Fernando could hear the collective _twang_ of the bows firing at the same time, the quiet hiss of arrows shooting through the air.

"_Testudo!_" Althos roared, banging his _scutum,_ his shield with his gladius several times. "Form testudo!"

It was one of the commands that had been drilled into the legionaries' minds time and time again during the training, during battle. Immediately after Althos gave the command, the front rank of marines held their _scutum_ shields up in front of them, almost up to eye level. All of the other ranks grasped their shields by the sides and hoisted them up over their heads, forming a makeshift roof of metal. _Testudo_ was an Old Language term, translating into Commonspeak as 'Tortoise'. It was an apt name for this infantry maneuver; the wall of shields covering the front and top of the formation did loosely resemble the shell of a tortoise.

The men moved in perfect unison, climbing up step after step. The testudo formation saved the legionaries from the hail of arrows. Had the samurai led the charge up the Emperor's Stair, they would have taken a good many losses before they were able to reach the archers at the top. The marines moved much more slowly, but they took virtually no losses.

Lord Fernando was sandwiched in between the second and third ranks—he could not contribute to the testudo because he did not possess a scutum. It was incredibly hot and stuffy under the 'tortoise shell' of shields; all the Praetor could really hear was the sound of heavy breathing and grunting, as well as the constant, rhythmic footsteps of over twenty men jogging in perfect unison. Then the arrows started hitting the testudo. Arrows clanked off the curved, rectangular shields as the archers kept up their fire. Once or twice, an arrow would slip between a crack in the formation, a narrow space between two shields. Lord Fernando would hear a disruption in the rhythm of footsteps, a stumble, a grunt of pain, a muttered curse.

Varro started to shout the legionary battle chant. It was used to keep the rhythm of an advance while marching into a fight—the Testudo formation, especially, relied on precise, synchronized movements in order to remain intact. If men started fell out of rhythm, the tortoise shell would collapse. And the chant itself was something every soldier knew; it wasn't even composed of actual words, only vowel sounds.

_Ay-ee-eye-yo! Ay-ee-eye-yo!_

The marines all took up the chant along with their _optio,_ climbing up another step with each resounding syllable, focusing all their energy into one single task; pressing onward. About halfway up the Stair, however, Lord Fernando became aware of a different, deeper noise. Something else was striking the tortoise shell, and it was much more powerful than the arrows. The temperature within the formation began to increase even more.

"Fire!" one of the marines in the first rank shouted, looking through the gap between the top of his shield, which was held up to eye-level, and the edge of the scutum belonging to the man behind him. "They're shooting fire down at us!"

"Shamans to the rear!" Althos ordered. "Shamans to the rear!"

The four Itoan shamans marching with the Centralians ducked down low and allowed the marines to pass around them, straightening back up once the last rank of marines passed them by. They started chanting under their breaths, moving their arms and hands in swift, flowing motions as they fell back into step with the Centralians. Wind started to swirl around the climbing testudo formation, forming a cocoon-like shell of air around the advancing marines. Every time the imperial mages shot fire down at the testudo, the shell of wind was able to disperse their magic.

The mages started invoking the other elements. Lord Fernando quickly stopped trying to comprehend the sounds that he was hearing. He could barely see anything of what was happening outside the tortoise shell, but the few times he was able to get a brief glimpse through the shields of the magical combat taking place around the formation, it was nearly enough to make his head spin. But ultimately, magic was outside the Praetor's sphere of influence, so Fernando ignored it. He trusted in the skill of Rei and the other shamans, and that was enough to keep him calm.

The Praetor focused only on climbing up to the next stair. There was something about fighting in a Legion that was quite, quite different than conventional swordplay. The effectiveness of the Centralian military came not from the individual skill of its soldiers; it came from the ability of dozens, hundreds of men to work in perfect harmony with one another in order to bring down a more powerful foe. Lord Fernando found that whenever he fought as part of a formation, he almost experienced what could best be described as a loss of individuality. He was not even a man, anymore; he was merely a small part of a much larger machine.

Suddenly, the monotony was broken by Althos giving a new order: "_Form battle lines!_"

Lord Fernando realized that they were no longer climbing steps. The loyalist samurai at the palace entrance had stopped firing arrows at the advancing Centralians once it became clear that their strategy was not working against the Testudo formation. Instead, they withdrew from the top of the stairs and drew their swords. The Praetor knew that Niten was on his way up the Stair with his samurai—they had started ascending the Stair once the defenders had abandoned their bows. The rest of the shamans were with them, as well as Cicero. Though Cicero had wanted to accompany the marines, Lord Fernando and Niten had denied him this wish; they would not risk Cicero's life by putting him at the front of the advance, not when he was the most crucial part of the plan to cleanse the Sun Emperor.

One of the loyalist samurai let out a raw-throated shout—something in Kurigana that, again, Lord Fernando was not able to catch—and the fifty or so samurai who had been mustered at the palace entrance all leveled their katana and charged the Centralians.

The moment Althos had given the command to form battle lines, the second and third ranks of marines immediately brought their shields down to cover their front and fanned out. The second rank moved to the left and the third to the right—both of them stepping forward so that they were level with the men of the front line, forming a new, much longer first rank. The exact same thing happened with the rear half of the former testudo formation—the fourth, fifth, and sixth ranks all combined into a larger reserve line for the first rank. They did not form straight lines, though; they were curved in an arc, so as to prevent any loyalist samurai from attempting to get around them and attack from the rear.

"Draw swords!" Althos thundered. "Prepare to repulse!"

The marines in the first rank drew their gladii in unison and locked shields. The front rank crouched slightly to lower its center of gravity, which would allow them to be able to take the impact of a large group of charging men. To further this, the second rank of marines actually braced the men in front of them by having their sword hands on their backs. They would not have to draw their swords until the order to switch ranks was given.

The Centralians all grunted with exertion when the charging samurai slammed into the first rank. The marines were actually driven back several large paces by the sheer ferocity of their opponents. One unfortunate marine fell, slashed across an exposed thigh. The attacking samurai raised his katana and brought it straight down towards the fallen marine's heart, but the strike was deflected at the last moment by another marine from the second rank, who stepped forward to take the place of his wounded comrade.

After the shock of the initial impact, the marines were able to regain their footing. Upon Althos's command, the front rank all let out a quick, sharp yell and pushed their shields forward, forcing many of the samurai back. Pressing this advantage, the marines thrust their blades through the gaps in their shields, catching many of the loyalist samurai off guard. And before the samurai could shred the exposed marines, the Centralians quickly stepped back and reformed their shield wall.

The loyalist samurai withdrew, eyeing their foreign opponents with wariness, now. The Centralians had proven themselves resilient to a frontal charge. While together, they would be able to continue to repel wave after wave of attacks…so, to combat this, the loyalists would have to divide them. Individually, the Centralians were weaker fighters. Fortunately, before the loyalists were able to start trying to pick apart the marines' formation, Niten arrived with the rest of the strike force.

There was no war cry, this time. Niten launched himself right into the midst of the loyalist samurai without a single word, like a vengeful shadow. Blood flew through the air as his katana got its first taste of blood. Right behind him came the rest of the rebel samurai and the Itoan shamans, all of them joining the fight and matching the ferocity of the loyalists with a fire of their own. Even Cicero, despite his superiors' suggestions that he remain to the rear, had joined the melee, supporting his comrades with magic wherever he could.

Under Niten's orders, presumably, the rebel samurai seemed more inclined to incapacitate the loyalists, rather than actually _kill_ them. Lord Fernando was quite certain that the loyalists were not affording them the same luxury. The marines did not seem to be very keen on taking quarter, either. Many of those men were weary of this land. They wanted to see their homeland, again, and these warriors were standing in the way of that.

While Niten's samurai and the Itoan shamans drove through the loyalists, Althos kept his marines moving forward, straightening the arc into more of a wedge formation. The legionaries were not jogging, anymore. They were not moving particularly fast…but they had a steady pace, and it never wavered. No matter what the splintered loyalists tried against the Centralians, nothing stopped their march.

The Centralians were very methodical in their approach to battle. They did not follow the rigid doctrine of honorable combat favored by the Ainu. They were a machine—cold, emotionless, ruthless. They had no qualms about fighting unfairly against the samurai. Every time a loyalist tried to engage one of the marines in a duel, the targeted Centralian would simply incapacitate the samurai with his shield, and then another marine would finish the job with a quick jab before the samurai could regain his footing. Somewhat lacking in honor, perhaps…but effective nonetheless.

Step by step, the Centralian wedge pushed through the melee and cut a path straight to the palace entrance. Lord Fernando pushed on the heavy wooden doors, but—not surprisingly—they did not budge. Either they were bolted from the inside, or they were magically sealed in some way. Either way, the strike force was not going to get into the palace through conventional means.

"_Rei!_" Lord Fernando shouted over to the elderly shaman, who was healing the wounds of one of Niten's samurai. He failed to hear the Praetor's call, so Lord Fernando cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted again. This time, Rei heard. "We need these doors open!"

The Praetor had expected Rei to gather all of his shamans and blast open the door with a gigantic fireball, or something along those lines…but instead, Rei only brought himself over to the palace entrance, leaving his fellow shamans to assist Niten's men in subduing the rest of the palace guards. And he did not open the doors with Fire, but with Wind.

Before getting started, Rei gave the palace doors a push of his own, followed by a series of knocks at several different places. The shaman then placed his hands on both doors and closed his eyes, murmuring softly under his breath. When he pulled back, he gave a single nod to Lord Fernando and bared his arms. "The doors are locked with three wooden braces," he said to the Praetor, speaking in barely-intelligible Kurigana. Fortunately, he spoke slowly enough for Fernando to understand him. "Have your men stand back, please."

The elderly shaman cupped his hands and started moving them around each other, as if he were moving his hands over the surface of a ball. A soft breeze started to swirl around the shaman, which gradually intensified into a strong wind. But even as the wind increased in strength, it also decreased in size. The Praetor then saw that Rei was not only strengthening his wind; he was compressing it into a ball, containing it within his hands. Although air was invisible, the distortion of the compressed wind was great enough for it to actually look like Rei held a tangible ball in his grasp.

After a full minute of strengthening his wind, Rei held his hands out in front of him, palms parallel. He then pressed his palms almost together—there was barely a centimeter between them. As a consequence, the sphere of wind actually flattened into a wide disk, spinning through his palms. Rei held his hands extremely steady and crouched down to the ground. He gingerly reached forward and inserted the disk of wind into the thin crack between the two palace doors. Once the wind disk was in between the doors, Rei lifted his arms abruptly and opened his palms. This sent the spinning disk of wind shooting straight up through the crack between the doors and into the ceiling above.

Functioning like a saw blade, the disk of super-concentrated wind was enough to blow through the three braces holding the doors closed from the inside. This could have been done much more easily with a 'saw blade' of Water, but there were no convenient ponds or rivers right in front of the Sun Palace, so Rei had to make do with Wind.

Althos got the marines back on the march, forming them up into a column. The Centralians advanced into the palace's grand hall, which stretched all the way to the center of the palace, where the throne room lay beyond another set of doors. The doors at the other end of the hall, however, were already open. Rei would not have to conjure anymore wind.

Just as the Centralians entered the palace, Niten followed them inside, along with the rebel samurai and the Itoan shamans. After having a quick word with Niten, Althos halted his marines for a few moments, allowing the Ainu to move past them. Once Niten's men passed them by, the centurion got his unit moving again. Lord Fernando, however, remained in the front, walking forward alongside the samurai commander.

The strike force moved down the hallway, which was completely empty. Normally, palace guards would stand at attention along both sides of the hall, holding banners. At least, that was how it had been when Lord Fernando had last visited the Sun Palace. Perhaps those guards were now lying outside the palace entrance, either dead or unconscious.

Fernando noticed that Niten had removed his facial armor. Perhaps he did not want to hide behind a mask of anonymity when confronting the Emperor.

The throne room had not changed very much. Large, bronze braziers—one set in each corner of the chamber—gave the throne room most of its illumination. The shadows were offset by a series of smaller lanterns that hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the chamber was a canopy, which had transparent, silk curtains that hung to the floor, though the front curtain was drawn open. And under the canopy, partially shrouded in shadow, the Sun Emperor sat on his throne.

There were another dozen palace guards surrounding the Emperor's throne. They all drew their katana and started forward, but they did not make it very far. "_Teishi,_" the Sun Emperor commanded, holding up a hand.

Stop.

The Sun Emperor rose from his throne and emerged from his canopy, stepping into the light. Lord Fernando's breath caught in his throat—the Emperor looked even worse than he had the last time Fernando had seen him. His skin was deathly pale, his lips colorless. His face was gaunt, looking more and more like a skull than an actual face. And the eyes…black as night, they were like voids; devoid of any life or emotion. He was also bald; his short black hair appeared to have fallen out.

In short, he looked like death on legs.

The Emperor's lips parted in a cold smile as his throne room was invaded. "Well, this is quite an ensemble we have here. Niten Dōraku, the famous swordsman of the Kasai Mountains… I have heard many stories about you, Niten. Tell me…is it true what they say? That you were raised by wolves? You _do_ have the look of a dog, so perhaps there is some truth to the fiction…" the Emperor slid his gaze over to Lord Fernando. "And, of course, Lord Iulus Fernandos, Praetor of the Centralian Kingdom. It would seem that you did not simply skulk off into the night, as I was led to believe. But I sense an emptiness, here… Where is your master, Niten? Has he dishonored me by sending only his lapdog to confront me, while he remains far away?"

Niten did not respond. Lord Fernando could not tell what he was thinking or feeling—the samurai commander's face was completely unreadable. Before Niten could say anything in reply, however, the Praetor quickly spoke up, dimly aware of the force of rebel samurai entering the room behind him.

"I would have words with the Emperor," Lord Fernando requested.

The Sun Emperor arched an eyebrow ever so slightly, ignoring the arrival of the rebel samurai. "He stands before you."

"I see no Emperor before me," Lord Fernando countered. "I see only a shell, stolen over by a pretender. I would have this man's mind restored, your taint burned away."

"Is that so?" the Sun Emperor laughed—an unpleasant sound that made the Praetor want to cringe. "You might as well turn back now, fool. None of these men will lift a finger against their Emperor. You are alone."

It was Lord Fernando's turn to smile as he heard the familiar synchronized footsteps approaching. "Actually, as fate would have it, I am _far_ from alone," the Praetor stepped aside, allowing the Sun Emperor to see the force of Centralian marines marching into the throne room, swords drawn and shields raised.

Lord Fernando turned back to face the Emperor, only to see the blur of a blade streaking towards his neck. Instinct taking over, the Praetor dropped to the floor, avoiding the strike that nearly decapitated him by less than an inch. He rolled backwards and sprang back up to his feet, drawing his mithril saber in time to meet the Emperor's next blow, which was aimed at his chest.

Lord Fernando deflected the blow and counterattacked, but was effortlessly blocked at every turn by the Sun Emperor. Even in such a degraded state, the Emperor was a formidable swordsman.

The twelve palace guards all leaped into action, making a beeline for the Praetor, but they were intercepted by Niten. Somehow—the Praetor was too occupied to get a good look—but somehow, Niten was able to delay them until his force of samurai reached him, driving the palace guards back away from the Emperor.

The Praetor was barely able to block the Emperor's next strike. He started stepping forward, intending to lock their blades, when suddenly the Ainu leader clenched his fist and punched it forward. There was a rushing of hot air, then suddenly Lord Fernando felt a blast of heat across his chest. He was blown off his feet, flying back several yards through the air before landing on his back and skidding a short distance.

The Emperor had just blasted him with Fire—the whole front of Fernando's leather armor had been disintegrated, and his under-clothes were scorched black and falling apart. His flesh had been badly burned, but the actual pain felt…distant…almost like a thunderstorm looming on the horizon. The Praetor spat out a globule of blood and pulled himself gingerly into a sitting-up position, pausing several times to regain his breath. This was even more evidence of the Emperor's corruption—he was not a mage, yet he manipulated the elements with the skill of a Mahjarrat.

The Emperor was coming towards him, grasping his katana with both hands and raising it in anticipation of the killing blow that he was about to give to the Praetor. He moved past his palace guards, who were steadily getting beaten back by Niten's samurai, continued towards the fallen Centralian Praetor.

"A man of strong opinions…" the Ainu monarch chuckled quietly to himself as he stood over Lord Fernando, placing his blade onto the Centralian's neck, gently. Lord Fernando had no strength to fight back—any sudden movement on his part would cause the pain of his burns to explode within him, and then he would be incapacitated, easy prey for the Sun Emperor anyway. "A man of strong opinions, perhaps…but, unfortunately, the same cannot be said for your fighting prowess."

The Sun Emperor laughed one last time, raised his katana high above his head, brought it slicing down towards the Praetor's head…and hesitated at the last moment, his blade quivering barely three inches from Fernando's neck. The Emperor drew in a deep, sharp breath, his chest heaving up and down. The Praetor looked up at him. The Sun Emperor's face was twisted and contorted with what looked like extreme pain. For a brief moment, Fernando thought the Emperor's eyes had turned light brown, but when the Praetor looked more closely, they had reverted back to their previous, empty black state.

The Emperor stopped breathing heavily and seemed to calm down, raising his blade once again.

"It seems that your control over the Emperor is not quite as strong as you would have me believe," Lord Fernando murmured.

"If only you could see how hard he tries to fight me," the Sun Emperor chuckled. "It is quite amusing, really… Now, Praetor Iulus, I am afraid your time is at an end-"

Suddenly, the Emperor was gone, blown off his feet by an extremely powerful blast of Wind. Lord Fernando's abdomen started to give out, sending him back onto the floor, but he was caught by Althos before he could fall. "Come on, now, sir," Althos grunted, throwing one of the Praetor's arms over his shoulder and helping him over to where Niten was standing. "Let's get you on your feet. You should be standing for this…"

The Emperor picked himself back up to his feet, only to get hurled back by an even more powerful blast of Wind, landing in front of his throne. This Wind blast blew down the canopy, sending the curtains flying, leaving the throne exposed.

The fighting had died down, by now, and the surviving samurai and marines gradually formed a semi-circle around the throne, watching the Emperor struggle back to his feet. Lord Fernando turned towards the throne room entrance and saw Cicero enter the room, his arms bared and his hood down. Behind him, the Itoan shamans, led by Rei, walked in step with him. All of the shamans eyes' were closed, their heads bowed, and they were all humming under their breath.

"What are they doing?" Fernando asked Niten.

"A limited soul transfer…" Niten murmured. "This is the first time I have seen one involving more than two people, though… Basically, your mage is acting as a vessel for the combined strength of all of the shamans. Through him, they will be able to cleanse the taint of the Emperor without directly attacking him."

"And how will they rid the Emperor of Zamorak's influence? Sorcery?"

Niten shook his head, his eyes filled with wonder and anticipation. "They are shamans, Praetor. They deal with the spirit world… They will call the Emperor's ancestors. Such craft is rarely ever used in the manner of an exorcism...we are about to witness something extraordinary."

The Sun Emperor's lip curled back in an animalistic snarl, and he punched both hands forward, sending twin jets of fire roaring toward the Centralian mage. In response, Cicero planted his feet and blocked the fire with another blast of Wind, blowing the flames away and dissipating them. Before the Emperor could make another move, Cicero refocused the third blast of wind and sent it straight into the Ainu monarch, pushing him down into his throne. Cicero than clenched his hand into a fist and compressed the air around the throne, which rendered the Sun Emperor immobile, barely able to breathe with the air pressing down on him.

With the Sun Emperor unable to fight back, now, a critical point was reached in the shamans' magic, and they began their work in earnest. While Cicero continued to hold the Emperor down, bolstered by the combined strength of the shamans, Rei started to chant in some old, archaic dialect of Kurigana that even the samurai could not understand.

The Sun Emperor started to struggle, but Cicero's hold held firm. The Emperor attempted to invoke the elements, but Cicero increased the pressure bearing down on the Emperor's limbs, quashing the Ainu monarch's efforts. Finally, the Emperor sat back, regarding the men arrayed in front of him with loathing. But he turned his attention towards Lord Fernando.

"Complex tactics were never a strength of these Ainu fools… The Shogun may command the army at my walls, but you were the true puppeteer, Praetor, pulling at the strings of this battle," the Emperor leered Fernando. "You are merely delaying the inevitable. With or without the Ainu by your side, Centralia will burn. Even as we speak, your precious home is invaded from the east while your Warmaster flees westward. Soon, the fires will come to Tethys, and that sniveling whelp of a King will have nowhere else to run. I think I'll make him my pet… Amusing, don't you think, having a Centralian King crawling on all fours like a-"

"Cicero, would you please shut him up?"

Cicero gladly obliged. Every time the Emperor attempted to speak, the Centralian mage would block his trachea, causing him to choke.

Rei continued his chanting, growing steadily louder and louder. The temperature of the throne room seemed to drop, as well—Lord Fernando found himself shivering uncontrollably every few minutes. After nearly ten minutes of fervent chanting, there was a sudden gust of wind that blew through the room, despite the absence of windows, nearly extinguishing the lamps and braziers. Strangely, the chamber was still nearly plunged into darkness; the braziers and lamps were still lit, but it was as if the light had lost all of its strength. The now-dimmed room grew even colder—Lord Fernando could even see his breath. The men started to murmur and fidget, clearly unnerved.

"Calm yourselves, lads…" Althos sounded unsettled as well, but he maintained a stern tone.

Rei's chanting began to change. At first, Lord Fernando thought the elderly shaman's voice was growing raspy, but then he realized that there were other voices chanting as well, quiet as whispers. The Praetor craned his neck, turned to look at the other shamans…but was confused when he saw that none of them were chanting. They were all silent, still working in concert with Cicero to keep the Emperor restrained.

None of the marines or samurai were chanting, either—the Praetor was certain of that. Where, then, were these new voices coming from? As Lord Fernando listened closely, he found that the whispering voices were not coming from any particular direction…they were coming from _all_ directions.

Then a figure appeared near the throne. At first, it appeared to merely be a trick of the dim, flickering light…but then the figure gained substance, and stepped towards the throne. The figure was clearly a man, but it was also transparent, glowing with an otherworldly light. Lord Fernando's first thought was that he was seeing a ghost…but he'd seen ghosts, before, and this was different. This…apparition…seemed less substantial than a ghost. It wavered like a desert mirage, as a mere breath of wind would dissipate it. It was clearly not a normal ghost; ghosts were the spirits of the deceased who remained on this plane of existence, for whatever reason…but the mirage-like specter near the throne looked like it still had one foot in the realm of the spirits. It was a visitor to this plane, not an inhabitant.

Niten sucked in a breath between tightly clenched teeth when he caught a glimpse of the ghostly man's face. "Tokiyasu, the previous Emperor… His father," the samurai commander nodded at the Sun Emperor. "Rei's summons have been heard."

More of these half-ghosts, these ancestral spirits, started to materialize around the walls of the throne room, near the four braziers at each corner. Initially, they appeared individually, or in groups of two or three…but after a minute, they appeared out of the light by the dozen until there were over a hundred of them. Emperors and Empresses of ages past, all gathered in this very room. Their attention was focused on the Sun Emperor, their descendant—they paid absolutely no heed to the members of the strike force or the surviving palace guards. The samurai and Centralians instinctively backed away from the throne as the spirits moved towards the Emperor.

Then one final spirit appeared, taller and brighter than all the rest. As he stepped forward, every Ainu in the chamber immediately fell to their knees and bowed down all the way down to the floor. The marines glanced at each other, unsure of what they should do. Lord Fernando recognized the spirit, however, from the statue out in Koganeno Square. It was Yoakenohoshi, the First Emperor, son of the sun god Tumeken—or _Izanagi,_ as he was called by the Ainu.

Lord Fernando gave a respectful nod to the spirit as it passed him by, stepping back with Althos to rejoin the marines. The Centralians watched in an awed silence as the Sun Emperor's ancestors congregated in front of the throne. They passed _through_ Cicero and the shamans, who remained completely motionless. They all stood in a ring around the Sun Emperor. It was difficult to describe—they were not gathered around the throne like a group of people; they were all standing…_within_ each other. It was impossible for over a hundred people to stand in a circle that small, but spirits—lacking solid mass—_could_. The ring of spirits looked more like a circle of constantly shifting and moving light, obscuring the Sun Emperor from view.

The First Emperor stepped through the ring of the Sun Emperor's ancestors. He looked down at the corrupted man in the throne and spoke. His voice was quiet and disembodied, but still managed to command respect. "_Child of my descendants_…_ Rise up…_"

The faint glow that the spirits were giving off suddenly exploded into a blinding radiance. The Centralians, who were still staring at the ritual, all cried out in pain and surprise, squeezing their eyes shut. Lord Fernando was able to open his eyes again, as long as he didn't look in the direction of the throne. But eventually, the light grew so bright that, even when Fernando had his eyes closed, it was _still_ bright. He had to cover his eyes with his hands to fully block it out.

And then, like the snuffing of a candle, the light suddenly vanished.

* * *

The Marshal and his detachment of two hundred samurai had just reached the top of the Emperor's Stair when the blinding light suddenly started shining out through the palace entrance. It was much too bright to gaze at directly, so the loyalists were forced to hang back. The alternative was advancing against an enemy they could not see, which would have resulted in failure.

Akai had been struggling to deal with the cannons that the Centralians had brought up against the city walls. At first, he'd thought that those cannons were the Shogun's ace in the hole, his special strategy in order to gain victory here…but the moment the Marshal heard the ringing of the palace alarm bells, he knew that he had been deceived. Somehow, the Shogun had managed to get a force of his men over the city walls and into the capital. Perhaps he had done so days, weeks in advance. Perhaps he had planted troops in the capital before his army had even set foot on Oēn.

All those men would have had to have done was keep out of sight for a short while, until the time came for them to strike. Then the Shogun had brought his Centralian allies' cannons against the city, and the Marshal had done exactly what the Shogun _wanted_ him to do. He had sent the vast majority of the imperial forces within the city to defend the eastern walls…leaving the path to the palace clear to anyone who happened to be hiding in the city, waiting to attack the Emperor.

It was unlike anything the Marshal had ever seen, before. He knew that his people had their fair share of capable tacticians, but something on this level…this kind of deeply thought-out, carefully planned, meticulously executed strategy… It stank of Centralian meddling. The Marshal wondered if the Centralian Praetor was one of those enemies attacking the Sun Palace—he seemed like the kind of person who would be able to pull something like this off, and the Marshal had not spotted him on the battlefield, yet, which he had thought strange.

The Marshal had immediately pulled two hundred samurai from the eastern walls and personally led them down the central boulevard to Koganeno Square, where they found the inner city gates opened and its gatekeeper unconscious with many broken bones. From there, it was straight up the Emperor's Stair, only to be halted by this infernal light…

Finally, the light subsided, allowing the Marshal to see into the palace once more. "Onward!" he cried, leveling his katana and sprinting straight through the palace entrance, two hundred determined samurai hot on his heels. He ran faster than he had ever run in his entire life, sprinting down the length of the grand hall in barely ten seconds. He barreled into the throne room, blade held high, ready to cleave it down into the first enemy who turned to meet him…only to be met with silence.

Upon entering the throne room, the Marshal's mind processed many different things at once.

The enemy force was comprised of rebel samurai and Centralian legionaries, but they were all scattered. The samurai were all on their hands and knees, bowing to the throne. The Centralians seemed to be in a sort of daze, but they were bowing as well—not as deeply as their Ainu counterparts, but still bowing nonetheless. Several rebel samurai and palace guards lay dead on the ground. Directly in front of the Emperor's throne, another Centralian lay unconscious. This man was not a legionary, however—he appeared to be a mage.

The Marshal saw Iulus Fernandos, the Centralian Praetor, which more or less confirmed his earlier suspicions of Lord Fernando being largely responsible for this attack on the palace.

He then swept his gaze upwards to the throne, and nearly fainted at what he saw. He had feared the worst; he had feared that the Emperor was dead, killed—or at the very least _harmed_ by the rebels, by whatever that bright light had been.

But the Emperor was unharmed. In fact, he was standing up, gazing in what appeared to be utter puzzlement at the unconscious foreigner at his feet. He looked up as the Marshal entered the throne room, his brow furrowing in a confused frown.

"Marshal…?"

"_Akitsukami,_" the Marshal dropped to his knees and bowed down to the floor in the presence of his Emperor.

The Sun Emperor's confusion increased even more as he watched another two hundred armed-to-the-teeth samurai charge into his throne room. He had only just regained consciousness and was still taking in the sight of his throne room and everyone in it, so this only added to the chaos. However, once the newly-arrived warriors took in the sight of the Marshal prostrate on the floor, and then of their Emperor looking at them in bewilderment, every single one of them dropped to their hands and knees as well.

"Akai-_dono_… Rise! Please, everyone, rise!" the Sun Emperor stepped away from his throne, gesturing for all of the prostrate samurai to stand back up.

"My Emperor…" the Marshal took a step forward, keeping his head bowed, "I accept responsibility for allowing this invasion of your palace… I was too focused on-"

"Marshal, you may stop averting your eyes," the Emperor interrupted.

The Marshal took the hint and stopped bowing his head. He looked up, met the Sun Emperor's gaze. He noticed that the Emperor's eyes were now a bright, light brown. Now that his subordinate was looking him square in the eye, the Sun Emperor leaned in close and asked the Marshal the very first thing that was on his mind.

"Would you mind explaining to me how a contingent of Centralians ended up in my throne room? Are we at war?"

* * *

_**Author's Note**_

_Holy shit, that was the longest goddamn chapter I've ever written. I need a snack. But, as promised, I present you with a fuckload of action.  
Happy 2012!_

_-TheAmateur_


	22. Chapter 22: Divergence

Chapter Twenty Two: Divergence

The island sat in the middle of the great River Elid, yet it did not part the waters. Instead of swirling around the sides of the island, as any flowing liquid should, the water seemed to simply flow right _through_ the land. It passed into the sand of the island's northern beach without pause, and seemed to spawn right out of the southern beaches, continuing on its way. It was almost as if the island rested on top of the river's surface, rather than the actual riverbed.

A small, but tall pyramid rested in the middle of the island. Though it gave off a faint, golden glow, it was not actually made of gold—it was built from giant, smooth golden-white stones. And instead of coming to an apex, there was a temple of sorts built on top of the pyramid—columns lined the edges of the top of the golden structure, supporting a flat roof comprising of a single, giant slab of the same kind of yellow-white stone.

Surrounding the pyramid was a ring of dozens of tall palm trees. They seemed perfectly normal, except for their size and fruit. They were nearly as wide as the length of two men head-to-toe; and, instead of bearing coconuts, these trees bore large, round, yellow fruit that glowed bright like miniature suns.

It was a green oasis of vibrant life, contrasting somewhat with the sandy expanse that hugged the Elid on both sides.

The island itself was home to crocodiles, which swam in the waters around the island and crawled along the beaches; desert apes, which dwelled in and around the trees with the bright, radiant fruits; eagles, which nested in the treetops; and scarab beetles, which dwelled in the earth. It was situated in one of the widest points of the River Elid, where the river was nearly a mile and a half across.

If a traveler happened upon this part of the river, walking along the banks, he would see nothing in the waters save the crocodiles and fish. If a man was travelling down this part of the Elid in a boat, then he would see nothing in the middle of the river, either. He would simply pass through unhindered, though he might feel an odd sensation or presence within his mind. But he would think nothing of it, and continue along his way.

Thus, the island was both there, and not there.

Sometimes, however, men would catch glimpses of the island, like how a mirage might appear to a traveler near death in the middle of the Kharidian Desert. They would return to their homes with tales of a phantom island, of a golden pyramid temple, of fantastical trees with fruit that shone like the sun. These tales would be dismissed by most as hallucinations born of thirst. And if anyone ever set off in search of this island, they would never find it.

A bluish mist had descended over the center of the river, slowly traveling upstream towards the island. It hung low, almost clinging to the surface of the water like moss to the face of a rock. It was curiously moving upstream, however; moving against the current of the river, rather than with it. Wind was the only force that could make something like that possible, but today was a windless day.

The mist continued to move upstream, eventually flowing over the island's southern beach. Unlike the water, it did not pass through the sand as if it were insubstantial. Instead, it shrouded a small portion of the beach, disturbing the handful of crocodiles which were sunbathing in its path. The mist did not remain, however. After it settled over the sand, it started to compress in on itself. The mist coalesced into a humanoid shape before finally solidifying into the form of an older, silver-haired man with a carefully groomed short beard and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a simple azure cloak, which bore the symbol of a four-pointed star.

The man cast a single look at the sunbathing crocodiles that were in his path, and the large reptiles immediately scurried off to either side. The old man walked up the beach and through the grassy meadows, up towards the giant palm trees.

As he neared trees, he caught sight of another man. Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear that this other person was not a man—he looked like a beetle in humanoid form. Instead of having flesh, his skin was a chitinous, black and gray carapace, spiny and insect-like. He also had four arms; two larger arms that bore a closer resemblance to human arms—having upper and lower sections, elbows, double-jointed wrists, and long, spindly fingers—and two smaller appendages that grew from his torso under his larger arms, which looked more like insect legs. He also had the head of a scarab—elongated, with large eyes—which were currently closed—and mandibles in the place of jaws.

The scarab-man was sitting cross-legged in front of one of the sunfruit trees, his hands resting on the ground. Dozens of scarab beetles sat around him in a circle. It was almost an unnerving thing to see—the beetles were not skittering or flying about, or even flaring their wings. They were sitting perfectly still, as if they were made of stone, entranced in the presence of this being.

"Hello, there," the old man gave a cold smile in greeting to the scarab-man.

The scarab-man's eyes snapped open, revealing solid, glowing orbs of light—similar to the old man's eyes, only they were white in color, without any irises or pupils. His mandibles twitched as he saw the old man in blue, and he hissed in contempt. "_You,_" he snarled, his voice a raspy whisper. "I believe you are on the wrong island, Meddler."

"No…" the blue-eyed old man shook his head, glancing up toward the temple at the top of the pyramid. "No, I am right where I need to be. Is your maker home?"

"My _father_ is here, yes. But do not disturb his peace."

"_Father,_ right, yes," the old man returned his gaze to the scarab-man. "Forgive me; I keep forgetting that he still calls a _beetle_ his favorite son."

The scarab-man clicked his mandibles in anger, but gave no other outward reaction to the old man's insult. "You have no place here, Meddler. Speak with my father if you must…then leave. Go back to your war, and do not return."

The old man in the blue cloak made his way past the scarab-man, chuckling quietly as he stepped into the ring of sunfruit trees that surrounded the pyramid. "Always a pleasure, Scabaras."

* * *

Avis was lost.

He was in a desert of red sand, crimson dunes stretching off into the distance, as far as the eye could see. The boy moved to take a step forward, but felt a cool breeze at his back, smelled the salty scent of the sea. He turned around and found himself looking out into a vast ocean. The coastline was a perfectly straight line—from Avis's perspective, the desert and the ocean were exactly the same size.

Thunder started to rumble in the sky. It clapped very regularly—every ten seconds, or so. The wind started to intensify, as well. There were no clouds, but neither was there any sun. The entire sky glowed bright with a soft radiance that gave the illusion of daylight.

Avis became aware of a thick wall of mist over the surface of the ocean, swiftly billowing up into the sky until it reached the height of the clouds. A hot blast of wind caught the boy from behind, prompting him to turn back towards the desert, where he saw what appeared to be a gigantic dust storm brewing in the distance, mirroring the wall of mist over the ocean.

A voice came forth from the dust storm, speaking directly to the boy. "_Follow me, boy_… _Follow me, and you will have freedom._"

"_Follow _me,_ child of war_…" a second voice emerged from the mist—this one deeper and more commanding than the first. This sounded like the voice of a lord, whereas the other sounded like the voice of a general. "_Follow me, and you will have peace._"

"_I will bring change to the world._"

"_I will bring the world stability._"

"_Choose..._"

"_Yes, you must choose..._"

The thunder continued, gradually increasing in frequency. The blue and red behemoths of mist and sand drew closer to the shoreline, taking on an even more threatening demeanor. A tendril of fear snaked its way into Avis's stomach, and the boy fled, running down the coastline. Time did not seem to have a strong grip on him—sometimes he felt like he'd been running for an hour, and then it would feel like several seconds.

The voices did not leave him alone. They spoke in an endless, constant stream, overlapping with each other, bombarding the boy from both sides.

The mist and sand surged towards each other, screaming towards a convergence over the shoreline. Avis finally stopped running, seeing that he was getting nowhere. Heart pounding like the thunderclaps from the sky, he turned around, facing back the way he came. He looked to the sand, but saw none of his footprints. It was as if Avis had not even moved.

The mist and sand clashed high overhead, blotting out the light of the sky, plunging the beach into shadow. Squeezing his eyes shut, Avis fell to his knees and screamed as the two forces of nature crashed into him, clutching at his head and face to ward them off, but any sound he made was snatched away by the roaring wind, any movement taken from him by the fury of the elements. Everything was plunged into howling darkness.

And then…_light_. The elements continued to battle all around the boy, but he was now surrounded by a protective bubble of white light, which seemed to keep the raging sand and mist at bay. And in the middle of it all stood Jerrod, dressed in his trademark black traveler's cloak.

Avis slowly uncurled himself from the fetal position and got back up to his feet, staring up at his mentor. "Master? What is happening?"

Jerrod did not give any reply. Instead, he smiled, reached forward, and flicked Avis right in the middle of his forehead. As he flicked the boy, the thunder clapped once again.

"_Ow!_" Avis rubbed the spot where he had been struck. "What was that for?"

Another flick, another thunderclap. But the thunderclaps were now beginning to sound more like dull thunks, as if Avis was able to hear them more clearly...

The light keeping the elements at bay suddenly brightened. Avis looked up into the light, squinting as it grew too bright for his eyes to handle. He blinked once, and the light moved aside, revealing stormy gray eyes, a long, straight nose, and dark gray facial hair. It was Jerrod's face, which did not make much sense because he was standing over…

Avis looked to where Jerrod had just been standing, but there were only trees and underbrush. The beach between the desert and ocean was gone, replaced with a thick forest. Jerrod was kneeling over him, a werelight floating over his palm, which he was shining into the boy's eyes. The bright sky was gone as well. In its place was a veil of dark gray clouds, the smell of sea salt now replaced with the smell of rain.

"Nearly croaked on me, boy," Jerrod grunted, extinguishing the werelight. "Bled out enough to feed a whole family of vampyres, you did."

"I…" Avis blinked several times and shook his head, trying to sit up, but a feeling of profound dizziness gripped him, and he rested flat once more.

"Lie still for a minute," the Cleric ordered. "Get your bearings. We need to move fast, and I can't have you passing out on me, again."

Gradually, it all came back to Avis. Agoras. Reyton. The new spatha. The explosion, the werewolves…running, fighting…so much fighting…

The boy instinctively clutched at his side, feeling for the horrible bite wound that a werewolf had given him in front of the walls of Agoras, shortly before Avis had brought the walls down. The bite was no longer there. The blood had been washed away, and the bite was little more than an oddly-shaped mass of scar tissue.

The center of his forehead also felt rather sore… It seemed Jerrod had been flicking him in both the dreaming _and_ waking worlds. Perhaps the thunder from his dream had not been thunder at all.

"Healed it as best I could," Jerrod said, watching his pupil touch the scars. "Same with the scratches across your back. They won't trouble you…but traces of them will always remain."

Avis took a deep breath and let his hand fall. Slowly, this time, he sat back up, breathing in deeply. The dizziness was still there, but it was not nearly as bad. He looked around at the forest they were in, running his hand through the grass. When his fingers brushed against a rock, he looked down at the small stone, lodged in the earth, and concentrated upon it. The stone shuddered, and the earth covering it was shifted to the side.

The stone was actually a large rock, larger than Avis had expected, most of which had been buried. Avis ripped it free from the earth without even moving his hands, watching it rise up into the air. He made it hover at eye level for a few moments and considered shattering it, but ultimately decided to just let it thud back to the ground. He pushed it back into its niche, smoothing it over with the displaced dirt.

"I used Earth…" the boy murmured, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I remember using Earth."

"I'll say," the Cleric chuckled. "You brought down an entire wall with it."

"How'd we end up here? Last thing I remember was you picking me up…"

"Nothing I could not handle," Jerrod shrugged, scratching under his beard at an itch that would not go away easily. "All that matters is that your mother did not reclaim you… Can you walk?"

"I think so," Avis nodded. He took hold of the nearest tree and used it to pull himself up to his feet. He swayed in place for a few moments as the blood rushed to his head, but was fine after that. He took one last deep breath and straightened up, giving the Cleric another nod. "Let's go."

"Not so fast, boy," the Cleric reached into his pack and pulled out the woolen shirt and pants that he had purchased in Agoras right before its destruction, tossing them over. "Unless you intend to walk to the Kharidian Desert in naught but your own flesh."

Avis looked down and saw, with some small measure of embarrassment, that his pants were little more than tattered rags. It was a miracle they had not fallen to pieces when he had stood up—now _that_ would have been embarrassing. To prevent this from happening anytime in the future, Avis ducked behind a large tree and changed quickly into his new clothing. It was just as well that he shed the sad remnants of his clothing from his old life in Ullek—winter was coming, and desert clothing did not shield very well against the cold.

The boy then grabbed his spatha and buckled the sword belt around his waist. _Now,_ he was ready to move.

"We'll have to move fast," the Cleric donned his satchel, having finished lacing up his boots while Avis was changing. "Your mother will not have given up her pursuit—no Enochian sigils to hold her back, this time. She is most likely on our trail right this moment, which is why we must move swiftly."

As teacher and student hiked off deep into the forest, Avis could not help but notice a different feeling in his gut. His journey had changed, sure as the sun rose in the east every morning. In the beginning, from the day he woke up in Jerrod's cottage, there had been an almost light-hearted aspect to his training. Recovering from his grief at the destruction of Ullek, his home, Avis had been able to discover more of his inner ability to manipulate the elements. He was in the company of a fascinating, if somewhat gruff, man who seemed to have an absolute treasure trove of knowledge concerning all matters worldly. He was in a new place, a new environment…and life was good, for the moment.

Then Enakhra had burned down Jerrod's home, forcing them to flee north earlier than planned. During their time on the road, Avis had started to understand the implications of the prophecy found in the Stone of Jas concerning him. He started to realize that his journey was more than that of a student traveling the land to learn the power of the elements—he was attempting to do in a matter of months what it took years, decades for Human mages to master.

But there had still been a strange sense of adventure throughout it all. After all, Avis had spent his entire childhood in Ullek. He'd known that city like the back of his hand, but he'd never set foot outside it until its destruction. And then he had spent several months in the Virid Swamp, which was virtual isolation. After being forced from the swamp, Avis suddenly found himself traveling to cities and lands that he had known only through his quasi-caretaker Farrah's stories. He was realizing just how very little of the world he had seen, and enjoyed every new experience that his journey brought him.

But now… Avis had known that his mother was hunting for him since her attack on Jerrod's home, but her threat had always been a distant one. They had always known she was out there, but she always seemed to be many miles away. But now, as the boy forged onwards into the forested hills of the Stellantae Province, he could not help but feel like prey, like a frightened rodent fleeing under the eye of a hungry hawk.

Now, Avis could feel the immense pressure that had been laid on his shoulders. He knew that the war had come to Centralia, that he had very little time to finish mastering the elements. There was an urgency about their journey, now. Avis had a bad feeling that his mother knew exactly where he was going. Her attack on Agoras had not been a spontaneous act—she had obviously planned it ahead of time…which meant that she had probably been on their trail since they had left the Earth Temple.

By now, she had most likely determined how Jerrod was Awakening the elements…and she knew there was only one element left. She might not know where Avis's location was at the moment, but she _did_ know where he was _going_ to be. The boy was certain that they would run into her again, and he did not know how they would escape her a third time. Even for his mentor, those would be incredibly long odds.

They continued through the forest at a breakneck pace. It was Jerrod's reasoning that they get to the Fire Temple as quickly as they could—once Avis was fully Awakened, then Jerrod could take him someplace secluded to finish his training, someplace where Enakhra could not find them. Karamja, perhaps. Only the northern part of the giant island-continent was colonized by Centralians—the main part of the island comprised of a largely unexplored jungle. Jerrod was certain he and Avis could disappear there for a while.

Eventually, night fell and Jerrod stopped their trek—they still had to sleep. But they got right back to it before sunrise, continuing eastward. It was the Cleric's plan that they travel east to the River Salve, which they could use for transport down to the desert. This would shave days, maybe even weeks off of their journey—the only other option was walking south, which would take a long while. And with Enakhra close on their trail, speed was something Jerrod did not want to sacrifice.

On the second day of their trek through the forest, Avis and Jerrod encountered Centralian legionaries on a tall ridge. They were hard at work strengthening fortifications and constructing additional defenses all along the escarpment. Jerrod recognized it as Silvosii Ridge, one of the largest of the Undae Stellantae—the collective name given to the giant ridges of northeastern Centralia, translating to Commonspeak as the 'Waves of Stellantae'. They extended almost as far south as the River Salve, and were named for their relatively close proximity to one another. Were the Stellantae Province stripped of trees, the ridges and valleys would no doubt resemble giant, earthen waves.

Considering the lack of fighting on Silvosii Ridge, Jerrod deduced that the Legions had also established another defensive line on Mattinse Ridge, further east. Mattinse Ridge was the nearest of the Stellantae Waves to the River Salve, and was another obstacle Jerrod and Avis would have to cross.

As they neared Silvosii Ridge, Jerrod stopped for several minutes to devise a quick spell that would hide their presence. It involved bending the light around their bodies in order to render them invisible. It was not a perfect process—it would not mask the sounds they made, their tracks, or their shadows; and if someone looked at them directly for long enough, they would notice an unnatural shimmering in the air. Luckily, though, most normal people did not spend their time staring into space, searching for invisible people, so getting past the Centralians would not be very much of a problem.

Once they were hidden from the naked eye, Jerrod led Avis forward. First, they made their way silently through the myriad camps that the legionaries had set up behind the defenses of Silvosii Ridge. When soldiers were not on duty, manning the defenses, these camps were where they would reside. Getting past them had been easy.

It became more difficult once they reached the actual ridge. There were many more soldiers stationed on the ridge, and no easy gaps for the pair to slip through. Ultimately, if they were discovered, Jerrod knew he would be able to talk their way out of it. All he really needed was to contact his old friend Athellenas, who was bound to be somewhere nearby…but, all the same, it would be much better for everyone concerned if Jerrod and Avis made it to the River Salve undetected.

When they reached the top of the ridge, Jerrod waited patiently for several minutes for an opportunity to move, which eventually presented itself when a group of soldiers struck up a conversation, discussing their conquests in an Avarrockan brothel. Muttering under his breath, Jerrod dragged Avis past the soldiers and over the trenches before the boy could comprehend what it was he was hearing.

As night fell once again, Jerrod and Avis stopped for rest. They did not make any kind of camp, this time, however—they merely found a reasonably flat patch of dirt and laid down their bedrolls.

Avis lay on his back, resting his hands under his head, staring up at the pitch-dark void of the sky. The stars were still hidden…and they would probably remain hidden for a long time. Thunder continued to growl overhead. It was no longer a distant storm, like it had been at Agoras. It hung squarely over their heads, waiting to unleash its fury.

The boy sighed, turning over onto his side, hoping sleep would find him easier in this new position. It did not. He blinked once and frowned when he saw that his mentor was not asleep, either. In fact, he was not even lying down; Jerrod was sitting back against a tree, his pipe in hand, the pipeweed in its chamber glowing a cherry red as the Cleric drew upon it.

"Can't sleep?" Avis asked.

"What gave it away?" the Cleric grunted, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air, not bothering with smoke circles. "Noticed the lack of snoring, did you?"

Avis smiled, but did not laugh. Laughter did not come as easily to him as it had in the past. He lay in silence for another few minutes before speaking again. The Cleric clearly was not going to start a conversation, but he seemed to be in one of his rare, pensive moods…moods in which he was _willing_ to hold a conversation, if prompted.

"If you had a choice between peace and freedom…which would you choose?" the boy asked.

Jerrod did not give an immediate answer. Instead, he took another breath from his pipe, this time exhaling the smoke in circles, staring thoughtfully into the sky. "I would choose _both,_" the older man finally declared. "Wouldn't you?"

Avis's cheeks flushed red; the boy had not expected to be put on the spot like that. "I… Well, yeah, I would choose both, but… But I mean, if you _had_ to make a choice…"

"Why would I _have_ to make that choice when I can just choose both?"

"Because… Because, I… you just…" Avis found himself getting more and more tongue-tied before he finally gave up trying to argue. "Why can't you just answer the question?"

"And miss out on an opportunity to see you splutter about like a drowning monkey?" Jerrod hummed with subdued laughter. "It's like you don't know me at all!"

"_Why do I even bother_…" the boy muttered.

"Alright, boy, alright. You want my honest opinion?" Jerrod held up his hand, calming his pupil down. "Peace and freedom… They are two things that every man is entitled to, and anyone who tries to force you to choose between them is a tyrant. And in the end…a tyrant will deprive you of both."

That gave Avis more than enough to think about.

Jerrod could see the troubled look on Avis's face—unlike the Cleric, the boy had never excelled at hiding his emotions. Jerrod could read the boy's face like a book. "Not the kind of answer you were looking for, was it?" Avis's continued silence was enough of an answer, so Jerrod went on. "The best answer is usually the simplest one…but sometimes even the simplest form of a complicated answer remains rather…_complex_. Why'd you ask me in the first place? Thoughts like these don't just spring up from nowhere."

Avis hesitated, but decided no harm could come from explaining himself to his mentor. He gave Jerrod the details of what he remembered from the dream he'd had before regaining consciousness, of the battle between the desert and the ocean.

The Cleric continued to smoke his pipe as he thought on Avis's dream. "So let me get one thing straight," Jerrod paused to clear his throat, shifting to a more comfortable position. "I was in this dream of yours…and you still consider it a nightmare?"

"All you did was smile and flick me. You weren't helping."

Jerrod chuckled again, drawing out one last breath from his pipe, burning out the last of the pipeweed. He tapped out the resin and stowed the pipe away into the folds of his cloak. "Dreams are complicated things, boy."

"Were the Dark and Light Ones actually talking to me?"

"I do not know," Jerrod shrugged. "Again, dreams are complicated. I even know of a group of mages from the Fremennik Territories who specialize in the study of dreams; that is how deeply one can try to understand them. And for the sake of clarification, Saradomin is not the God of Light—that would be Tumeken. Come, you were raised in the desert; you should know that."

"I was a thief, master," Avis sighed. "Learning about the Desert Pantheon is not exactly the highest priority of a thief."

"Point taken…" Jerrod paused for a moment to yawn, his weariness finally catching up with him. He sat up from his tree and crawled over to his bedroll, slipping inside. "All this talk of dreams and gods has finally made me remember just how tired I am. Get some rest now, boy… Tomorrow, we cross Mattinse Ridge and make for the River Salve."

Within a minute, Avis could hear snoring coming from the Cleric's bedroll. It was a wonder the soldiers moving back and forth between Silvosii and Mattinse Ridges did not discover them. Perhaps Jerrod had taken measures to ensure that the sounds of his own sleeping were not heard by passers-by. That was the only explanation Avis could think of that would explain why half the Centralian Legions were not coming down on them.

The boy returned to his back and closed his eyes, letting the sound of Jerrod's heavy breathing to lull him to sleep. He did not even get the chance to dream, this time; he felt like he'd only closed his eyes for a moment before Jerrod was shaking him awake. It was still as dark as it had been when he'd gone to sleep, but Avis knew that it was dawn. They always woke up at dawn, even though for the past week it had been impossible to see the morning light because of the clouds.

Avis looked to the sky and blinked when he felt a tiny splash just under his eye. He held his breath and listened to the forest around him, became aware of quiet tapping sounds, sounds of water striking the plants and underbrush. It had started to rain.

"Storm's finally here," Jerrod remarked. "Athellenas's boys aren't going to be happy…"

"Wouldn't the rain bog down Zamorak's forces?"

"Well, yes, it will," the Cleric conceded, rolling up his bedroll and shouldering his satchel. "But you have never fought in earthworks, before. Whenever it rains, the ground around those defenses runs like a muddy river…and the soldiers have to live in that, for to leave the trenches would be to forsake the defensive line."

Avis buckled his sword belt around his waist and fell into step beside his mentor as they continued heading east. They could see the motes of flame flickering in the distance, the torches set by the legionaries all along their lines. They moved at a fast jog, at first, covering the distance between their 'camp' and the ridge within several hours. The morning had brightened to a dull gray by the time they reached the camps. Jerrod wove the light-bending spell that made them invisible once again as they slipped in between two of the camps, moving at a slower pace up the slopes of Mattinse Ridge. There were many more soldiers here—this ridge was much more heavily defended, as it was the first line of defense.

Battle did not seem to have arrived here, yet, but it could not be far off. Jerrod and Avis could see it in the eyes and faces of the men who they passed; they had the look of men who were stuck waiting for a fate that they could see approaching, but had yet to arrive. Avis had seen similar looks in condemned prisoners awaiting the gallows. Even the staunchest of fighting men had trouble with their nerves during the wait before a battle.

"Look there, boy," Jerrod whispered as they reached the top of the ridge, nodding over to the left. Avis looked in the indicated direction, caught sight of a battle standard capped with a golden eagle. "See that? The gold bird on top of the standard? That there is the Aquila—the eagle standard. Every legion has one. The Eagle is more than just a mere standard, however—it is the symbol of that legion's honor. Losing it is about the worst thing that could happen to a legion. That's the Eagle of Legio Quarta Mortifers; the Fourth Legion. The Killers."

"The Killers," Avis echoed, making a face. "Not a very creative name, is it?"

"Can you think of a better way to describe what it is they do best?"

Avis had no answer to that, rendering Jerrod's question rhetorical.

The men here were much quieter than the soldiers Jerrod and Avis had passed on Silvosii Ridge. Some of them sat in groups, playing games of dice, chatting with one another. Others sat individually; some stood watch, some smoked from their pipes…some simply stared into space, having nothing else to do. And the rest were asleep—they slept sitting up, usually in pairs with both men propped up against each other. This way, no one had to sleep in the mud.

There were no heated tales of seedy brothels coming from these soldiers. Danger was always more real, it seemed, the closer you were to it. These IV Legion men seemed to be reinforcing that sentiment. Because they were quieter, Jerrod and Avis had to be quieter as well. They stealthily made their way through the earthworks and wooden fortifications, over the shallow trenches, dodging any soldiers who walked across their path.

Down the eastern face of the ridge, they continued on their way, picking up the pace as they left the Centralian lines behind. There were still small groups of legionaries operating on patrol east of the ridge, but Jerrod and Avis did not encounter any of them. Before long, Jerrod was able to spot more torchlight through the trees. Not very far up ahead, the forest thinned out as it neared the River Salve, which would make it easier for a large army to set up camp…as evidenced by the torchlight. Zamorak's invasion force was in sight.

Jerrod could not actually see them, yet; he could not see the vampyres, the werewolves, the undead, the demons…but he knew they were there, waiting to begin the attack on Mattinse Ridge. And he would have to sneak past _them,_ as well. There, the real danger would lie…had the legionaries discovered them, Jerrod would have eventually been able to get himself and Avis out of trouble—the only real loss would be _time_. Up ahead, though…if they were caught, it was all over. The Cleric hadn't had time to create another teleportation tablet—he was out of tricks. If he was cornered again, he would have to fight his way out the old-fashioned way.

Or at the very least, he'd have to ensure that Avis was able to continue on his way to the Fire Temple alone. Upon leaving Aeriose, not long after their first encounter with Enakhra, the Cleric had given Avis careful instruction to seek out one of his own kind to complete his training, should anything happen to Jerrod. Azzanadra would have been Jerrod's first choice, or perhaps Wahisietel, or Akthanakos. Any of the Zarosian Mahjarrat would do, really…except Sliske. Jerrod harbored a special distrust and dislike toward that particular Mahjarrat.

As the torchlight grew nearer, Avis started to breathe a bit more heavily. An old, familiar feeling was coming back to him. "I can feel my mother," the young Mahjarrat informed his mentor, doing his best to focus on where he was putting his feet, not letting his Awareness get in the way of his other senses. "She's nearby…"

Jerrod swore under his breath. That was all he needed—trying to stealthily tiptoe their way through a mass of Zamorackian filth with a hostile Mahjarrat nearby…and a hostile Mahjarrat actively _hunting_ you, at that. The Cleric proceeded even more quietly, his eyes staring out into the forest ahead of him. If he focused any more than he was right now, the trees he looked at would be sawn asunder by the force of his concentration. He watched for signs of disturbance in the forest, both physical and magical, slowing his pace as they neared the invasion force. If anything seemed out of place, he would have to-

"_Bending the light around your bodies, I see,_" a deep, gravelly voice spoke from behind.

Jerrod swore again, whipping around to find the source of the voice…but he saw nothing but trees, stretching off into the west. Obviously, they were not the only ones using a cloaking spell…but Jerrod could not detect any alterations of light in the area, which left him at a loss for how this individual was hiding himself from view.

"_You must forgive my disappointment,_" the voice continued. "_From the stories I have heard of you, Jerrod Lucifer, I had been expecting something a little more_…competent,_ shall I say? It certainly ruins the thrill of a hunt if you cloak yourself in a light-bending spell that I can smell over a league away_."

Jerrod was getting tired of this voice's games. "Either hold your tongue and let us be on our way, or show your face! I grow weary of having conversations with trees."

"_With _shadows,_ you mean,_" even as the voice spoke once more, Jerrod saw movement near one of the nearest trees. It was a large oak, but the tree itself was not important—it was the tree's shadow that was moving. A humanoid, shadowy figure extricated itself from the tree's shadow, stepping out into the light, where it shed the cloak of shadows that was clinging to it.

It was a man in a black cloak, many shades darker than Jerrod's own cloak. But as the rest of the shadows fell away, the man's hands were revealed to be skeletal, and his face was a grinning, tattooed skull with eyes of burning scarlet. He spread his hands theatrically, as if he were about to give a bow. "Shadow magic beats light-bending spell, I'm afraid," the skeleton-man seemed to grin even more so than normal.

In his mind, Jerrod was screaming something along the lines of '_Well, shit!_'—and rightly so, for Jerrod knew this person—but he kept himself calm. He had faced his own death more times than he could count, but he had never once lost his composure or nerve. He dropped the light-bending cloaking spell, as it was no longer serving its purpose. "So you must be… Zemouregal?" Jerrod pretended to guess. "Forgive my memory—almost every member of your ilk has tried to kill me on at least one occasion. Eventually, all these occasions just start to blend together."

"Oh, don't pretend like you did not already know exactly who I was; it is insulting," the Mahjarrat sighed. "Everyone in Gielinor knows of me, such is my power. And you must be Avis," he turned his gaze to the boy, who stood at Jerrod's side, slowly lowering himself into a fighting stance. The Mahjarrat noticed this, and rumbled with laughter. "You intend to _fight_ me, fledgling? Do you know who I am?"

"An enemy," was all Avis would say in reply.

Zemouregal's muted laughter continued. "You are certainly your mother's son. Never any humor, with her..."

Throughout the entire conversation, Jerrod had been steadily gathering his energy for a giant magical attack. If he wanted to stand a chance against a Mahjarrat in a straight-up duel, one of the only attacks that could possibly incapacitate Zemouregal would be one that channeled the energy of Saradomin. As long as the Lord of Order believed Jerrod to be loyal to his cause, the Cleric would always have access to his energy. This form of attack had no formal name, though many of Jerrod's former comrades from the Church had called it the 'Saradomin Strike'. He was nearly ready to attack, but he still needed to buy a little more time, so he decided to needle Zemouregal in a place where he knew it would sting.

"So how has life been treating you, this past decade? Enakhra still playing hard to get?" the Cleric asked, as if he were merely making small talk with an old acquaintance.

Zemouregal drew in a sharp breath through his teeth, the fire in his eyes flaring an angry orange for a brief moment. "Careful, Lightbringer."

"Or what? You'll kill me twice?" It was Jerrod's turn to laugh. The energy building within him was causing his staff to hum and vibrate lightly. _Nearly there, old man… Just a little more…_ "If I hadn't already gotten Hazeel killed, I should have expected to see _him_ here. Enakhra must really be getting desperate if she's turning to you for help, don't you think?"

The crimson light in Zemouregal's eye sockets darkened for a split second in the Mahjarrat's skull equivalent of a blink. Then the black-robed Mahjarrat gave a simple shrug and gestured behind Jerrod, saying, "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

Reacting with near-superhuman reflexes, Jerrod turned on his heel and dropped into a defensive stance, ready to ward off any magical attack that came his way. Unfortunately, the attack that came was not a magical one. Even as he was raising his defenses, he heard a faint _twang,_ and then felt something punch him in the torso.

Enakhra, clad in her customary red, stepped out of the shadow of another tree, having also hidden herself with shadow magic, a yew longbow in her grasp. She was smiling.

The Cleric's breath caught in his throat as his built-up magical energy dissipated into nothing, and time seemed to stop. He slowly looked down at himself, saw a feathered arrow shaft sprouting from his chest. The world became distorted, almost as if Jerrod was looking through a lens; everything seemed to grow more blurry, but the arrow in his chest remained clear as crystal. He felt something wet beginning to dampen the front of his cloak, and he knew it wasn't the rain.

Avis was in shock. He did not see his mentor get hit, but he heard the impact. He turned around as well, staring unbelievingly at the arrow shaft embedded in the Cleric's chest. Already, a deep red stain was spreading outward from the wound. The older man had a look of complete surprise on his face. He stood perfectly still for a few moments before his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees.

The Cleric felt numb, now. There had been a burning pain before, but now he just felt cold and numb. He could hear Avis screaming in rage, could feel the energy rolling off his apprentice in waves.

Avis did not even consider the possibility that Jerrod was possibly dying. He went straight from shock at the sight of his mentor bleeding out on his knees, to unrestrained fury when he saw Enakhra reveal herself with the longbow that had done the deed. He surrendered himself to the darker side of his soul, let the animalistic, instinct-driven part of his mind take control, and he attacked his mother.

Enakhra had briefly fought her son once before, back in the Virid Swamp when she attacked Jerrod's home, but it had not been much of a contest. The boy had been able to hold his own for half a minute or so before Enakhra had completely overwhelmed him. But this time… Enakhra was taken aback by the ferocity of her son's attack. Had her reflexes not been quite as sharp, she would have met her end from the very first strike.

As the duel progressed, Enakhra found herself truly fighting for her life. She stopped playing with her son and started concentrating on actually bringing him to heel.

Jerrod did not know how long the fight lasted. He was having a hard time staying awake, let alone upright. His eyelids were growing heavy, but he ignored the weariness that was building up inside of him. He had to stay conscious.

With his blurred eyesight, all the Cleric saw was a hazy mess. All four elements were fighting themselves and each other, resulting in massive explosions of energy, blinding flashes of light that lit up the forest for miles around—and in the middle of it all, two constantly moving silhouettes, both trying and failing to find the weaknesses in each other's defenses. The problem was that they matched each other's ferocity and aggression—their fighting styles were too similar, resulting in a stalemate.

Zemouregal, who had been leaning against a tree, watching the duel between mother and son with an expression of pure boredom on his face—or, at least, as bored as a skull could look—finally gave a long, loud yawn, and stood up straight. "Alright, I think that is quite enough," he declared.

As he spoke, tendrils of oily smoke appeared around him and surged forward. Instead of seizing the boy's limbs and restraining him, however, Zemouregal opted for a more unconventional solution. One of the tendrils curled around Avis's neck and tightened, which held him still for a moment before he was able to break free. That one moment was all Zemouregal needed, giving him enough time to send the rest of his smoke up the boy's nostrils and down into his throat.

Avis faltered when he realized that he was unable to breathe. The sudden rush of smoke made him want to gag, or cough...but he could not do that, either. He clutched at his throat, trying to tear away whatever it was that was keeping him from breathing, but the obstruction was _inside_ his throat, beyond his reach. When he opened his mouth to gasp, he wasn't even able to make a noise. The inside of his mouth was nothing but inky darkness—filled with Zemouregal's smoke.

Avis's anger drained away as his lungs started to burn with the pain of being denied their lifeblood. He collapsed to the ground, falling to his hands and knees, still clutching at his throat, trying desperately to breathe. His heart started beating really fast, and he felt as if his entire body was crying out in pain, longing for oxygen that it would not get. As his consciousness started to slip away, he managed to look up at his mentor one last time. Crimson eyes met gray ones.

Neither Jerrod nor Avis were capable of speaking to each other, but they could understand each other perfectly. _I will not leave you,_ they said to each other with one single glance.

Then Avis's strength failed him, and he pitched forward, lying unconscious face down on the ground.

Jerrod, however, was still awake and on his knees. He watched his pupil lose consciousness and collapse. He felt like he should be angry, furious, frustrated at his current situation…but, truth be told, all he really felt in those moments was a deep sadness. Avis was being taken from him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He would have given anything to spare the boy from the pain and suffering that no doubt awaited him at the hands of the Zamorackians, but he was completely and utterly helpless.

With Avis now unconscious, Zemouregal withdrew his smoke from the boy's throat, allowing him to breathe once again. The Mahjarrat then morphed into his human form—a tall, pale-skinned man with a closely-trimmed beard and mustache on his chin and upper lip, a straight nose, and large, crimson eyes. His scalp was covered with the tattoos that were on his skull, but they were obscured under his hood. He said nothing at first to Enakhra, only raising a single eyebrow.

Enakhra glared at him. "I had it under control," she muttered, reaching down to her waist and unsheathing her knife.

"Yes, I'm sure the fact that the youngling was matching you blow for blow was all just part of your plan," Zemouregal mused, brushing past the she-Mahjarrat. "But don't you worry! You'll always have me to pluck you out of danger; anytime, anyplace."

"I do not need _anyone_ to 'pluck me out of danger', as you so eloquently put it; _you_, least of all," Enakhra snapped, stepping toward the Cleric while Zemouregal picked up her son, slinging the boy over his shoulder like a sack of vegetables. "And for the record, the Lightbringer was right; the only reason—and I mean _only_ reason I even _considered_ speaking to you is because Hazeel is currently sleeping off a bad case of death. I also figured you could use a break from failing to destroy the Centralian Legions when you had the chance, so don't talk to me about 'plucking me out of danger'."

Zemouregal gave her a wink. "Has anyone ever told you how adorable you look when you're angry?"

Enakhra growled in extreme irritation—she bit down on the inside of her cheeks, stopping herself from retorting. Holding prolonged conversations with Zemouregal was not healthy for her sanity. She forced a smile and knelt down in front of the Cleric. The she-Mahjarrat cupped Jerrod's chin, tilting his head up so he faced her.

"Oh, Jerrod, I do wish you could have seen the look on your own face," she crooned. "I don't think I've ever seen you look so shocked!"

Even if Jerrod had wanted to give her a reply, he would not have been able to. Blood was starting to drip from his mouth, and he found it harder and harder to breathe.

Enakhra saw that Jerrod was not going to answer her, and gave a disappointed sigh. "You are no fun when you're dying, Jerrod, you know that? Of course, your lungs are no doubt filling up with blood right now, so you would not be able to answer me, anyway… No matter," she held the knife to the Cleric's throat and leaned in close, whispering, "If it means anything to you, you're the only Human I've fought in a long time who I consider worth taking the time out of my life to kill personally. And do not worry about the boy…I shall take good care of him. I am his mother, after all."

Still lacking the ability to talk, Jerrod communicated in one of the very few ways he had left.

Enakhra jerked back as the Cleric spat his own blood into her face. Snarling, she raised the knife and thrust it towards the older man's heart…and stopped short when something suddenly hit her in the shoulder. Waves of white-hot pain throbbed through the she-Mahjarrat's body, especially around her right arm and chest. She looked to see what was causing this pain…and was surprised to find an arrow shaft lodged in her right shoulder.

The she-Mahjarrat barely had time to question how that arrow had gotten there before a second arrow caught her in the upper right arm, not far below the first arrow. Enakhra grunted in pain and stood up, trying to snap the shaft. A third arrow whistled right past her, just barely grazing the side of her neck. Someone with very accomplished archery skills was shooting at her, and he had very nearly scored a winning hit. That was much too close for comfort.

Within the next split-second, Enakhra glanced back at Jerrod, decided that the damage was already done. Even if he received medical attention, the arrow she had shot him with had been poisoned. He would not live to see the sunrise in two days. With that in mind, she decided it was not worth risking her life for a redundant finishing blow, and so she raised her arms and teleported away, vanishing in a haze of indigo light.

"_That's my cue_…" Zemouregal murmured, doing likewise.

As the indigo light faded, Jerrod found himself very much alone. It occurred to him that he had not been alone since his arrival in Ullek, what seemed like a lifetime ago. He'd arrived at the large Menaphite city, expecting to pick up Avis to take him back to Centralia, only to find the boy half-dead with an arrow wound near his heart. Quite an adventure _that_ had been, escaping from the city as the Zamorackian hordes under the command of Balfrug-Kreeyath burned everything down around him.

As he reminisced, the world played an odd little trick on the Cleric—it tilted down away from him, from his perspective. He noted that he seemed to be lying on his back, now, staring at the cloudy skies through the treetops above. He felt the raindrops splashing on his face, and they confused him, for he did not know if his cheeks were wet with tears or rainwater.

Now the Cleric felt very tired. He considered taking out his pipe and attempting to have one last smoke, but the idea was laughable at best. Instead, he contented himself to lie still and savor the cool, refreshing feeling of the rain on his face, listening to the thunder, which sounded distant to him. He also heard something else, something higher-pitched…voices, perhaps. But he did not trouble himself over any of it. All he needed was rest…

As darkness fell over the world around him, Jerrod closed his eyes. But even as he surrendered himself to his weariness, he did not find peace. What he found instead was an image burned into the inside of his eyelids…his pupil, in the Water Temple, the very first time he attempted to use Water Magic… Jerrod had held out some water in his hands to Avis, instructing his pupil to levitate it. Avis's attempt to do so resulted in the boy accidentally boiling the water—while still in Jerrod's hands—and causing it to explode.

The look of surprised horror on his apprentice's face had been almost hilarious enough on its own to make Jerrod forget the fact that his hands had been scalded within an inch of their lives.

The Cleric chuckled once, quietly, to himself, and fell silent.


	23. Chapter 23: Winter is Coming

Chapter Twenty-Three: Winter is Coming

The old man in the blue cloak paused for a moment, looked up to the treetops, gazed curiously at the bright, glowing fruits. It was said that the sunfruits were capable of healing any kind of wound, and were even rumored to grant immortality, but to the old man's knowledge, no mortal had ever tasted them. An idea occurred to him, then, and he wondered if perhaps it was time for that to change… He knew of one who would be in dire need, soon.

A wry grin tugged at the corners of the old man's mouth. There were many men who would sacrifice much to be able to gain the sunfruits' gift, but they would never find it, whereas the old man could eat one of the sunfruits whenever he wished…but he did not need to. He found the irony extremely amusing.

The old man in blue continued on his way through the trees, finally reaching the pyramid at the island's centre. As he ascended one of the carved stairways to the temple at the summit, the old man gradually became aware of an odd sound coming from the temple. It sounded curiously like weeping. The old man reached the top of the stairs, striding through two of the columns and entering the temple.

The temple itself was nothing extravagant. A brilliant, reddish-gold flame burned in the center of the space. The unnatural quality of the flame was the fact that it was burning in the middle of a pool, right on the surface of the water. Such a thing would never be able to happen anywhere else in Gielinor…but the old man could see why it was happening here.

The water in the pool shone with a soft, blue light, almost as if there was sunlight shining through it from below, and the reddish-gold flame produced no smoke—only light and heat. Water and Light, the two foremost life-giving forces, living off each other's essences.

There were two thrones, simple chairs of wood—one stained a yellow hue, the other a vibrant blue. One was emblazoned with a circumpunct, which was simply a circle with a dot in the centre—representing the sun and its radiance. The other throne, the blue one, was engraved with two horizontal, parallel lines that were zigzags in shape, representing the waters of a river. Because it was morning, the two thrones were situated on the eastern side of the temple, always facing the sun.

The occupant of the blue throne was not present in the temple, leaving it empty. But that was no problem—the old man had not come to see her. No, he had come to see her husband, the master of this temple...the person who was sitting in the other throne, marked with the symbol of the sun.

He had golden brown flesh, and was clad in a skirt-like piece of clothing that wrapped around his waist and extended down to his calves. He wore a gold and white piece of linen cloth on his shoulders and chest, which rested around his neck. He had soft, amber eyes, a strong, square jawline, and a broad, flat nose. Like the old man, he had many forms—he appeared sometimes as an eagle, or an eagle-headed man. Right now, he was in humanoid form.

And he was crying. Hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, the man in the throne was quietly weeping.

"Good morning, Tumeken," the old man greeted the dark-skinned man on the throne.

The sun god did not move from his throne. "Patron of Order, fighter of wars, extinguisher of lives; why have you come here?" he spoke to the old man without turning around to face him.

"May I ask why you are weeping, first?"

"Would a shepherd not weep if an elder-demon entered his pasture and slaughtered most of his sheep?" Tumeken asked, lifting his face from his hands and looking into the sun. His eyes seemed to glow with the radiance of the sunlight as he stared into its source. "So many of my people gone… So many souls for my son Icthlarin to guide to the afterlife. Too many… Did you not weep for the Icyene? Do you not weep now for the men who will die in the Stellantae Province, fighting on your behalf?"

The old man decided to change the subject. "I just finished speaking with one of your creations," the old man said, not answering Tumeken's question. He stood in front of the reddish-gold flame, behind the sun god's throne, patiently waiting for Tumeken to address him properly. "Scabaras still does not seem to fancy me, very much."

"And are you expecting me to harbor rosier feelings towards you than my son? If so, then you are mistaken."

"And how fares the rest of the old family? I hear Amascut has developed quite the rebellious streak…"

A sudden blast of heat exploded outward from the sun god, and his eyes flared with a blinding golden brilliance. He rose from his throne and turned to face the old man in the blue cloak. "Do you come here to mock and insult me? I am mourning the death of hundreds of thousands, millions of my people. Now is a very unwise time to test my wrath."

The old man was unfazed by the brief spurt of anger—it was what he had been hoping for. Tumeken would be easier to reason with when he was not bawling like a newborn. "Well, now that I have your full attention, I can get to the point. This war is entering a new phase."

"The Lord of Chaos is cutting swathes out of your territory, you mean," the sun god interrupted.

"The Centralian Legions are certainly not lacking in valor, but they are nothing more than a stopgap measure," the blue-eyed old man sighed. "I cannot directly enter the battle, for doing so would result in Zamorak's reciprocation, and then _no one_ will survive. In the _future,_ however, there will come a time when I will need to confront the Dark One directly, and when I do, I would very much like to have some divine assistance to keep my subjects from being slaughtered."

"Why in the name of Jas should I help you?"

"Simple," the old man replied. "If I win this war, your people will have a chance to recover. Just look at what the Dark One has done to the Menaphites alone…but I also hear rumors of his mischief in the Ainu Empire, across the ocean. Word has it that he took the Sun Emperor—who is your direct descendant, I might add—and made him into his own personal meat puppet. All that civil war business? That has Zamorak's name written all over it. If he is not stopped, then the Dark One will bring his fires to the Ainu people, and then you will lose _all_ of your followers."

"And what of yourself?" Tumeken asked. "I came to this world before you did. I was here throughout the Second Age, too. You, and Bandos, and Zaros… I remember the way you conquered your lands and imposed your order… You may keep the peace at first, but in a hundred years? A thousand? How long before you decide it's time to bring your order to _my_ realms?"

"Why, Tumeken, you speak as though you have a choice!" the old man sounded very surprised, though it was difficult to tell if it was genuine, or if he was merely being sarcastic. "Would you rather see your lands and people _possibly_ annexed to my empire…or burned to a crisp?" After the sun god remained silent, that was all the answer the old man needed. "That is what I thought. I will call on you when the time is right. It gladdens me that you are still able to see reason."

The fire in Tumeken's eyes died down as the sun god stepped back, returned to his throne. "You and Zamorak have dealt this world irreversible harm. The wounds caused by your war have struck Gielinor to its very core. Entire lands have been wiped from existence, entire species annihilated… I warn you, Saradomin, that you cannot harm a world for thousands of years without answering for it. Someday, there will be a reckoning for what you, Zamorak, Bandos, Armadyl, and all the others have done."

"Someday, perhaps," Saradomin conceded, turning from the sun god and heading towards the stairway he had used to walk up to the temple. "But not this day, I think. Do give Elidinis my regards, will you?"

The old man descended the stairs from the temple down to the ground. He glanced in the direction of Scabaras, but the insect-like god had vanished without a trace. Off to one of his caves, no doubt. No matter; Saradomin was not sure he was in the mood for another bout of verbal sparring, anyway.

The god of order could have left Tumeken's island straightaway, but there was one last thing he needed. Yawning quietly to himself, Saradomin walked off towards the nearest of the tall sunfruit trees.

* * *

Decius did not understand why the higher-ups still wanted patrols to be sent out beyond Mattinse Ridge. The enemy was out there. The rangers had reported that Zamorak's forces were crossing the River Salve. Once they finished crossing the river, they would then march on the Centralian lines. Why did the Warmaster need to know more than that? What use would it be to keep sending out patrols so that he knew the instant the enemy started moving forward?

The men back on the ridge were constantly on watch. Decius doubted even the slowest-minded legionary would be able to miss seeing thousands upon thousands of monsters charging their position. Even if the Warmaster knew when exactly the enemy was going to attack, the Legions would not be any _more_ prepared than they were right now.

But, unfortunately, Decius was not the Warmaster, so patrols continued to be sent out, and Decius was part of the latest one. The young legionary had prayed again and again to Saradomin to make this patrol a very uneventful one, but the God did not seem to be listening to him, today—about an hour into the patrol, bright explosions of light suddenly started flash in the near-distance, just as the misty showers started to intensify into a proper rainstorm.

Viriles, the sergeant who had been placed in command of the patrol by the centurion, ordered his men into formation. "Form up, lads!" the noncommissioned officer barked. "The _Legatus_ is going to want to know what those bloody lights are! Move it!"

Viriles was by far the oldest member of the patrol. He was an _evocatus—_a man who had re-enlisted in the Legions after completing his initial term of service. Evocati were, by default, higher-ranked than the common soldiers, higher-paid, and exempt from the menial duties such as fortifying the camps, burial detail, digging latrines, etc. etc. He was a stern, no-nonsense man who always got what he wanted. If he wanted to investigate those explosions, then Decius and the others were damn well going to do exactly that.

Decius particularly hated patrols because he always ended up getting sent on them, due to his skills with archery. He hoped one day to join the ranks of the Rangers, but he would have to survive his term of service with the IV Legion before he could do so…and survival was not very likely if he kept on getting stuck on these thrice-damned patrols.

Initially, Decius thought that they were going to have to scour the forest up ahead for signs of what the bright explosions of light had actually been, but the furious conflagrations did not stop. It took Viriles's patrol nearly ten minutes to proceed to the source of the commotion, but it was still happening when they arrived.

The Centralians could not yet see what was causing the noise and lights, but they could tell that it was coming from just over the next rise.

Viriles brought the patrol to a halt. "Dias, take the men and hold this position. If you encounter anything hostile, fall back immediately to Mattinse Ridge. Is that clear?"

"Clear as glass, sir," Dias, the second-oldest member of the patrol—a twenty six-year-old westerner from the Far Reaches—clasped a fist to his heart in a salute to his superior.

While Dias reorganized the formation of the men, Viriles called out to Decius. "Archer-boy! You're with me," the evocatus gestured for Decius to follow him as he set off towards the rise. Muttering quietly under his breath, Decius hefted his scutum shield—which he had been resting on the ground for a few precious moments—and hurried off after his squad leader.

"Slow and steady, son," Viriles murmured to the young legionary as he caught up. "Lucky for us, the rain has made all the dead leaves on the ground sopping wet, so they won't crunch if we step on 'em… But still, keep your wits about you."

The two Centralians made their way to the top of the incline. When they reached the top, they crouched down low and moved up along the clumps of underbrush, never standing all the way up nor moving through exposed patches of ground.

Down at the bottom of the incline, on the other side of the rise, there was a fight happening. Viriles and Decius dropped all the way down to their stomachs as they came within sight of the source of the giant explosions. Decius could see two figures down at the bottom of the rise—one kneeling, another leaning against a tree trunk—though there were a few trees in the way, and the rain made visibility less reliable than it would have been on a sunny day.

The explosions were easy to see, however. Great gouts of flame, geysers of shimmering water, gales of wind so powerful that they were almost visible by themselves…it was as if the elements themselves were fighting each other.

Viriles pointed to a clump of tightly-clustered trees about a third of the way down the rise. It was uncomfortably close to the explosions, but Decius was still not about to argue with his sergeant. Slow and patient as snails, the two Centralians crawled, shimmied, and wormed their way down the slopes until they reached the cluster of trees.

Here, they were able to stand up behind the trees and get a much better look at what was going on.

Decius gazed down towards the raging elements and saw that there were in fact _four_ people down there. The person leaning against the tree, the kneeling man, and two additional people—these last two were the ones fighting each other. The raging elements, the explosions of power that had been visible all the way from Mattinse Ridge…was all a result of these two people. They must have been incredibly powerful mages to create such a ruckus.

Viriles sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as he peered through his spyglass. He lowered the glass and handed it over to Decius, instructing him to observe the fight. "See those two in the middle of the explosions? And the one by the tree? Look closely."

Decius did as instructed, focusing in on the two fighting mages. One of them was a woman and the other appeared to be a child…but every few seconds their forms would flicker, and they would appear as living skeletons, lich-like beings with eyes of burning crimson. He then shifted his gaze over to the man leaning against the tree, and saw that he actually _was_ a living skeleton-creature—he was making no attempt to hide it, like the other two. The kneeling man seemed to be the only one who was Human.

"_Mahjarrat,_" Viriles hissed. "The one in black by the tree, and the two fighting each other, they're definitely Mahjarrat… Never thought I'd live to see one in the flesh, let alone _three_."

"Why are they fighting each other?" Decius asked.

"No idea," Viriles shrugged. "Get out your bow."

Decius set his scutum down on the ground and pulled the longbow from his back. Technically, he was not supposed to have this weapon, but he was something of an exception. Several months ago, when the IV Legion had taken part in the storming of a captured Menaphite city called Iunu, Decius had found a discarded bow, left behind by the city's defeated Menaphite defenders. With it, he'd managed to take out an entire group of werewolves that was charging at his century…and this act had been witnessed by General Sinclair himself.

Not long after the battle, the Legatus had personally sought Decius out to give him a proper longbow, promising him a chance to apply for the Rangers if he survived his term of service within the IV Legion. It was that very same longbow that Decius held right now. Decius took two arrows and planted them in the ground in front of him—if he needed to use the bow, it would be easier to grab an arrow in front of him, rather than reaching back into his quiver.

As he did this, the two Centralians saw the explosions cease, suddenly. The female and child Mahjarrat had stopped fighting.

Viriles observed this through the spyglass, and saw that the black-robed Mahjarrat, who had been leaning against the tree, seemed to be holding the boy in some kind of telekinetic chokehold. The boy clearly could not breathe, and quickly lost consciousness. "The black-robed one and the female seem to be allied…" the evocatus murmured.

"What about the one who's kneeling?"

"Hard to say…" Viriles had not been watching the kneeling man. He shifted his view over to the man, and quickly saw something very wrong with him. "He's…_wounded_. Arrow to the chest. Hold on, the female is approaching him…"

Viriles watched the female Mahjarrat—a beautiful woman dressed in robes of red—step over to the bleeding, wounded man while her black-robed companion picked up the unconscious child. She reached down and drew a knife, knelt down in front of the man, and pressed the knife to his throat. She was going to kill this man—they were clearly _not_ friends…which would mean that the dying man was very likely on the Centralians' side of the conflict.

Viriles could not quite explain the feeling that came over him in that moment…but, in that instant as he watched the female Mahjarrat press the knife to the dying man's throat, he knew that he could not allow her to kill him. "Decius, I want that man down there, and I want him _alive_. Shoot the Mahjarrat."

"Shoot…shoot the _Mahjarrat,_ sir?" Decius could scarcely believe what his sergeant was saying.

"Hit her where it hurts, and she won't come after you—she'll flee," Viriles quickly explained. "These two engaged the man and the child Mahjarrat in a fight, and they're taking the child alive…but they're going to kill the man because they obviously have no need for him. Look at how he's bleeding out; they will not risk their lives to finish a job that is likely already done. Now if I have to tell you to shoot the Mahjarrat female one more time, I will take off your head myself," the sergeant growled, dropping his hand to the hilt of his gladius.

Decius swore to himself once again, taking an arrow from his quiver and nocking his longbow. It was good they were already standing up behind the trees—he would not have been able to shoot a longbow while crouching, due to the weapon's height. He took a deep breath and held it, drawing the bowstring back and aimed carefully, taking the wind and rain into account.

Satisfied that his aim was true, Decius released the arrow, sending it cutting straight through the wind and rain. By the time it struck the female Mahjarrat in the shoulder, he had already grabbed one of the two arrows from the ground in front of him, nocking his bow a second time and reacquiring his aim. He made minute adjustments based on his last shot and released once again.

Unfortunately, the female Mahjarrat had moved at the last second, so the second arrow struck her in the arm, rather than in the torso. Decius could see her sweeping her gaze through the woods, knew he had only one last chance to convince her to give up trying to find him. He nocked the third arrow and swiftly took aim one last time, releasing the arrow.

This arrow almost missed the Mahjarrat completely, but it was close enough. Viriles, who was watching through the spyglass, could see the third shot graze across the side of the female Mahjarrat's neck. As he had hoped, she finally backed away from the kneeling man and vanished in a haze of indigo light. After a moment's hesitation, her black-robed companion followed her example.

"Good shooting, son," Viriles clapped Decius on the back, compacting his spyglass and slotting it back into his belt. "Not everyone can say they scared off a Mahjarrat, eh?" The sergeant then turned around and called for Dias and the rest of the patrol to move up.

The Centralians moved down the other side of the hill, spurred on by their sergeant. "Quickly now, lads! We can't have been the only ones to see or hear those explosions!" Viriles exclaimed.

The kneeling man was no longer kneeling by the time Viriles's patrol reached him; he had fallen onto his back and lost consciousness. The fastest of the soldiers, a burly, dark-skinned man from the Karamja Territories named Syphax, was the first to reach the dying man. He checked for the man's pulse and, upon finding it, said, "He still lives, Viriles!"

Viriles looked down at the unconscious man. There was nothing particularly special about him—he wore a bloodstained black traveler's cloak. His face was lightly lined with advanced middle age. He had a long, straight nose and high cheekbones, which suggested that he hailed from one of Centralia's northern provinces. The lower half of the man's face was covered in closely-trimmed facial hair that seemed to be making the transition from black to gray.

When one of the soldiers reached to pull the arrow out, Viriles stopped him. "Hold there, soldier…pulling it out without a _medicus_ nearby would only cause more damage. We need to get him back to Mattinse Ridge; he could explain why we just saw Mahjarrat fighting each other. Syphax, it's time to put your speed to good use…"

* * *

It was early evening by the time Athellenas received reports from General Sinclair about mysterious explosions of elemental energy occurring in the forest, not far from the IV Legion's section of Mattinse Ridge. The Warmaster was inspecting the XIII Legion's defenses, several leagues south of Legio Quarta Mortifers's position, so he was not far away when he received the news. Rather than listen to the messenger's entire story, Athellenas simply thanked and dismissed the man, then headed over to where he had hitched up Onyx and mounted up.

He was going to speak directly with General Sinclair. The Warmaster unhitched Onyx and spurred his steed northward. He rode hard and fast, arriving in the IV Legion's command camp behind Mattinse Ridge within half an hour. He hitched Onyx in the makeshift stables and made his way through the throngs of soldiers, into the command tent. The men standing guard at the tent's entrance moved to block his entry, but quickly backpedaled when they recognized him, offering him harried salutes.

General Sinclair looked up from his table as Athellenas strode into his tent. "_Imperator,_" he saluted the Warmaster. "You got my message."

"I learned about the explosions from your messenger; nothing more," Athellenas replied, removing his helm and cradling it under one arm. "The rest of what your man had to say, I intend to hear straight from you."

"I'm afraid my answers are very limited," the Legatus sighed. He reached under the table and produced a flask of what Athellenas guessed was ale. Sinclar offered the flask to Athellenas, but the Warmaster declined. "A patrol from the Fifth Cohort was sent out earlier today—they were the ones who investigated these explosions. I was debriefed by the leader of this patrol, a sergeant named Caius Viriles. According to the sergeant, he and his men encountered three Mahjarrat—a male, a female, and a child—and an older man. The Mahjarrat child and the female were fighting each other, which was the cause of the explosions."

"Mahjarrat fighting each other?" that was enough to give Athellenas pause. "Zarosian on Zamorackian conflict?"

Sinclair shrugged. "The two adult Mahjarrat subdued the child and attempted to kill the man—fortunately, Viriles's men were able to drive them away before they could do this. The man had taken an arrow to the chest, so our men rushed him back to our lines, where he was taken to one of the field hospitals. Meridius, my Chief Medicus, is personally tending to the man."

"I will take my leave, then, and speak directly to the medicus," Athellenas declared, stepping back toward the tent's entrance flap. He exchanged farewells with the Legatus and ducked out of the tent, back into the evening chill of the outdoors. He cut a path straight through the command camp to the field hospital that had been set up to the west.

It was not hard to find the Chief Medicus's tent. Athellanas already knew Meridius personally—the man had served with the IV Legion throughout the Desert Campaign and the retreat through the Mort Myre Swamp. Athellenas had received more than his fair share of wounds throughout both conflicts, and Meridius had been the one to patch him up.

Meridius was not in his tent, however. One of his assistants informed the Warmaster that the Chief Medicus was actually tending to the man brought back by Viriles's patrol at this very moment, so Athellenas allowed the assistant to lead him to the right hospital tent.

Athellenas spotted Meridius at the washing station, cleansing his hands of blood and other bodily matter. "Medicus," the Warmaster greeted the healer.

"Imperator," Meridius returned the greeting with a salute. "How may I be of service?" When Athellenas asked about the wounded man that had been brought back from the forest by the patrol, Meridius gave a faint wince. "Aye, the man's over on the other side of the tent. I am afraid he is unconscious, however; he will not be answering any of your questions anytime soon…if ever."

"What mean you by that?" the Warmaster asked as the Chief Medicus led him to the man's bed.

"The man was brought to me with an arrow in his chest," Meridius explained. "He had lost so much blood already, I was surprised he was still breathing at all by the time he made it to m hospital. However, with the help of a mage, I was able to remove the arrow, stop the bleeding, and drain his lungs of blood so that he did not drown in his own essence… But his condition is not improving—even now, he remains on Death's doorstep. It was the arrow, you see… The arrow was poisoned. The man's wound may no longer kill him, but the poison will."

"What kind of poison is it?" Athellenas asked. "Is there an antidote?"

All the Chief Medicus could do was shrug. "It is no poison I have ever encountered before, and I cannot cure what I am unfamiliar with. And I have no time to conduct proper research…and even if I _did_ have time, this man would be dead by the time I succeeded—this poison is fast acting. I am sorry…but he will be lucky if he lives to see another morning."

Athellenas looked down at the man in the bed that Meridius had taken him to, and his breath caught in his throat. He could scarcely believe it… Athellenas had never been so naïve as to think that he could come through this war unscathed…but he had never, not for one moment, believed that his oldest friend would meet his death.

"Oh, Jerrod… What have they done to you?"

* * *

Akai Hanako smiled as he drew the brush across the parchment in precise, carefully measured strokes. The written form of Kurigana was quite elegant and picturesque, compared to the alphabet of Commonspeak or the Old Language of Centralia. Most foreigners who became fluent in speaking Kurigana would find themselves still quite incapable of accurately recreating its written aspect.

Because of the complexity of their language's written characters, an Ainu would not write something down unless it was worth taking the time to do so. And what the Marshal was writing at this moment was certainly worth what little time he had left.

The older Ainu man took his time, carefully pondering each word he wrote. He sat in front of the parchment for a full hour until he had finished the poem he was working on. It was somewhat abstract, in true Ainu fashion, but still very grounded in reality. It was a summation of the Marshals current feelings—his regret for his shame, his pride in the bravery and honor of those who fought under his command, and his respect for those whom he fought against.

When it was nearly sunset, Akai stepped into the Sun Palace's baths and stripped off his armor and underclothes, stepping into the steaming hot water. He relaxed there for several minutes, breathing in deeply, savoring the feeling of the steam opening his pores. Two female attendants entered the baths behind him, and he stood up, allowing them to bathe him. Normally he would do it himself…but this was something of a special occasion.

When the attendants were finished, Akai stepped out of the baths and patted himself dry with a towel, changing into a pair of white cloth pants. He then held out his arms, allowing the two attendants to clothe him in a soft, white robe. He tied the sash around his waist, tightening the robe so that it would not fall open. He then slipped his feet into simple, leather sandals and drew back his hair, tying it back into the topknot that was worn by all samurai.

The Marshal then proceeded to the great hall of the palace, behind the throne room. The large, rectangular table that took up the center of the room was mostly empty, save for one man. There was only one place at the table that had food set upon it, and standing next to its chair was none other than the Shogun himself. "I brought it out myself," the older man nodded to the meal.

The meal comprised of fried rice and eel, glazed with a sauce that made the surface of the Marshal's tongue simmer. It was his favorite meal, exactly what he had requested. He said nothing to the Shogun, simply exchanging a single nod with his superior. The Shogun was smiling faintly, but it was not a happy smile. His eyes were mournful. Though the two samurai did not speak to each other while the Marshal ate, they did not need to. Much as the Shogun wished it did not have to end this way, he knew that the Marshal had to do his duty.

Akai Hanako took his time, savoring every bite of his meal, until he dropped the last ball of rice into his mouth. He set his chopsticks down, giving an appreciative burp…and then sat in silence, patiently waiting. Within the next half-hour or so, a younger samurai poked his head into the great hall, exchanging a discreet nod with the Shogun before withdrawing.

The Shogun gave a quiet sigh and laid a hand on the Marshal's shoulder. "It is time," he said.

The Marshal stood up and accompanied the Shogun out of the great hall, through the throne room, and into the entrance hall. The imperial guard stood at attention on either side of the hall as the Marshal passed them by. When the Marshal and Shogun reached the palace doors, the imperial guardsmen left their posts and formed up behind the two older warriors, following them outside.

More samurai waited along the Emperor's Stair, and they joined the procession as well when the Marshal walked past. There were nearly a hundred warriors following close behind the Marshal by the time he reached the bottom of the stair, walking toward the open inner city gate. The Marshal could see the large crowd of people gathered in Koganeno Square beyond—samurai, daimyo, soldiers, commoners, shamans; all kinds of Ainu citizens had come to stand witness.

As they moved toward the inner city gate, the Marshal glanced over to the Shogun. "May I ask who you and the Emperor have chosen?" he asked.

"Our choice was Niten Dōraku," the Shogun. "He was reluctant, but he would not refuse his Emperor."

The Marshal nodded, a ghost of a smile flickering about his mouth. "A good choice," he agreed. "He will do well, I think."

The Shogun and the Marshal reached Koganeno Square, passing through the inner city gates. The crowd filled almost all of the square, save for the area in between the fountain and the inner city gates. Standing in front of the statue of Yoakenohoshi was the Sun Emperor, flanked by Niten and the Centralian Praetor.

The people gathered in the square all quieted down into a hushed silence as the Marshal arrived. The Marshal and Shogun both continued on toward the Sun Emperor while the samurai who had accompanied them down the Emperor's Stair dispersed into the crowd of onlookers.

The Marshal stopped in front of the Sun Emperor, handed his monarch the small silver ring, shaped like a dragon swallowing its own tail, that was the symbol of his rank and office. The Sun Emperor accepted the ring, putting it into one of his inner pockets. With that, the Marshal took several steps back and slowly got down onto his knees. The Shogun held out the Marshal's _tantō_ knife, which Akai accepted. The Shogun then stepped around the Marshal at stood behind and to the side of him. He gripped the handle of his katana and unsheathed the blade, holding it ready.

Lord Fernando, who stood to the side of the Sun Emperor, watched as the Marshal pulled the knife from his sheath. The middle-aged samurai commander inspected the blade for several moments before holding it outward and inverting it, so that the point was resting on the left side of his abdomen. The Marshal took one last breath and was expressionless as he plunged the knife into his gut. Lord Fernando's stomach turned as the Marshal adjusted his grip on the blade before bringing it over to the right side of his abdomen, virtually disemboweling himself.

When he finished the cut, the Marshal gave a faint wince and quickly looked up, wanting to spend his final moments staring into the sky, feeling the warmth of the setting sun on his face. As he did this, the Shogun gave a sharp yell and brought his blade slicing down.

The Marshal's head thudded to the ground, his body crumpling soon after. Samurai hurried over to the Marshal's corpse and quickly cleared it away before the bloodstains grew too large to manage.

Lord Fernando kept his expression neutral as he witnessed the affair. When the Marshal had made known his intention to commit public seppuku, the Praetor's initial thoughts had been ones of protest. He was quite aware of the Marshal's ability to lead, and he did not want to lose the man to ritual suicide, of all things… But, Lord Fernando was also aware how far an Ainu would go to protect his honor, and he knew it would have been fruitless to attempt to dissuade the Marshal from his path—doing so would probably have resulted in the samurai leader taking great offense, anyway.

And so, there had been nothing for the Praetor to do but sit back and watch one of the Ainu Empire's best military leaders take his own life. Even after the official cessation of hostilities in the capital, Zamorak's influence continued to be keenly felt. In the end, Fernando was simply glad that none of the other high-ranking commanders in the loyalists' ranks had followed the Marshal's example—Akai Hanako's gesture seemed to be enough to pardon all the rest of the loyalist forces.

After the Marshal's death, life in the capital started returning to the way it was before a civil war had descended upon it. Lord Fernando was given a small room in the Sun Palace to stay in, and he spent most of his time either wandering through the city, or in conversation with the Shogun. The only noteworthy event of those first few days of peace was when the Sun Emperor appointed Niten as the new Emperor's Marshal.

Ten days after the battle, the _Silver Arrow_ arrived in Kātayō Harbor, having received the signal that the battle for Kātayō was over and that it was safe for them to return to port. This allowed Captain Harcourt to load his cannons back onto his ship, which had most of the sailors relieved. Bit by bit, their world was slowly returning to normal.

A week after that, roughly twenty thousand warriors from the northern island of Arokyo arrived at the walls of the capital. It was the army under the command of Kurosawa Ukitei, the fiery-tempered Daimyo of Ushu who had raised his own force to stop the Shogun's attack on the Sun Emperor. The Emperor had sent dispatches to Lord Kurosawa informing him of the current situation, already, which was most likely why Kurosawa sent envoys into the capital rather than greeting them with fire from his siege engines.

After several brief conversations with these envoys, they withdrew from the city, and Kurosawa himself made his entrance, proceeding through the capital to the Sun Palace with four of his best fighters. Lord Fernando got his first look at the man when he reached the top of the Emperor's Stair. His armor was similar to Niten's, only it was a vibrant red as opposed to Niten's maroon. He was tall and very thin, almost graceful; he reminded the Praetor of a rapier—thin in stature, perhaps, but lightning-quick, precise, and very deadly.

Kurosawa sported a thin mustache with ends that hung nearly all the way down to his lower jaw. His eyes were light brown in color, almost amber, and they blazed with an intensity known only to expert craftsman who devoted their lives to their craft and excelled at it. Kurosawa's craft happened to be warfare; and in this day and age, there was plenty of it to be had.

The Daimyo regarded the Centralian Praetor like he would an exotic animal that had been set free from its cage. Lord Fernando waited for Kurosawa and company to pass by before entering the Sun Palace, following the Daimyo of Ushu down the entrance hall and into the throne room. The four bodyguards waited outside the doors, but their lord continued inside.

"_Akitsukami,_" Kurosawa dropped to a knee, bowing in the presence of the Sun Emperor. Lord Fernando slipped into the throne room behind him, standing off to the side to observe.

"You may rise, Kurosawa-_dono,_" the Emperor gestured for the daimyo to stand up. Lord Kurosawa returned to his feet, casting several wary glanced over at the Shogun, who stood behind and to the side of the Sun Emperor's throne. If the Emperor noticed this, he ignored it. "Now would you care to explain why there are twenty thousand warriors camped outside my walls? Do you intend to lay siege to my city?"

"The city was supposed to be under attack when I arrived; it was my intention to _break_ the siege," Kurosawa explained, glancing at the Shogun once again. When he spoke next, he spoke directly to the military commander. "You have attacked the Emperor, and you must answer for it."

The Shogun's expression darkened, but the Sun Emperor quelled him before he could speak. "My soul was tainted by the stain of Zamorak. The man who exiled the Shogun, the man who you came here to defend was _not_ your Emperor. It was only through the Shogun's efforts that my soul was cleansed and I was restored."

Kurosawa hesitated, a slight frown creasing down his forehead. During his march across Oēn, when his scouts had reported the lack of fighting around the capital, the Daimyo of Ushu had scarcely believed their words. Later, when one of the Emperor's advisors met with him on the road, informing him of the battle's conclusion and the rebel victory, the one thing he felt the most was confusion. Nevertheless, he did not stop his march, proceeding all the way to the walls of Kātayō, where the Shogun's forces had camped only half a month earlier.

Now he arrived in the capital to find the rebel and loyalist forces reunited once more, the defeated loyalist leaders still alive, save for the old Marshal, and the Shogun reoccupying his old post as the Sun Emperor's advisor. If anything, the Emperor seemed to _approve_ of the actions of the rebels…and this confused him to no end. While he pondered the Emperor's words, he caught sight of the Centralian standing off to the side of the throne room, silently watching the proceedings.

"Why does a _gaijin_ stand in our presence?" the Ainu warlord asked, hoping for at least one answer he could understand.

"This man is Iulus Fernandos, Praetor of the Centralian Kingdom," the Shogun answered for the Emperor, as he knew the Centralian better than his monarch. "He is the reason why the battle for this city lasted only a single day."

That was enough to make Kurosawa blink. The Daimyo of Ushu did not particularly like Centralians—he'd always thought of them as weaklings who would prefer to stab a man in the back rather than fight him in honorable combat. And while this sentiment was not always without merit…perhaps it was not as resolutely accurate as he previously believed. But this revelation meant that the Shogun's forces had had Centralian assistance…and the Sun Emperor seemed to approve of _this,_ as well, as evidenced by the Centralian Praetor's presence in the palace.

It was almost too much for Kurosawa to take in at once.

"Perhaps you should go and bring your men into the city," the Emperor suggested. "The citizens here will give them quarter, which I believe would be better than having them camp out through the winter. Then return here for the evening meal. The Shogun and myself will do our best to explain everything to you then."

"As you wish, my Emperor," Kurosawa bowed once again and took his leave, but not before eyeing up the Centralian Praetor one last time. But this time, his gaze was a curious one, rather than a hostile one.

"He took it better than I expected him to," the Shogun remarked.

"The man loves war a little too much, perhaps," the Emperor conceded. "But he is not a brute, nor is he disloyal. He will listen to what I have to say."

As requested, Kurosawa arrived at the Sun Palace for the evening meal, along with Takeiji—his aide. Lord Fernando did not pay very much attention as the Shogun and the Emperor explained to Kurosawa everything that had transpired during the brief battle. The Daimyo listened to why the Emperor stated that the rebel cause was just and the loyalists were misguided. And finally, he listened to the Emperor's last declaration—his intention to unite all of the empire's armies under the imperial banner in order to march to the aid of Centralia.

Despite Kurosawa's dislike of Centralians, it had not been hard to convince him to agree with the Ainu going to Centralia's aid. After all, it was pretty much the chance for him to take part in the largest and bloodiest war Gielinor has ever known. He'd been stuck fighting rival daimyo for far too long.

After the evening meal was finished, Kurosawa took his leave once again and returned to his men. Before the Praetor could leave, however, the Emperor asked to meet him in his private chambers in half an hour. The Praetor left the great hall and headed out to the palace entrance, where he found a stone bench and smoked from his pipe to help pass the time.

It was nearly sunset by the time the Praetor made his way to the Emperor's chambers, where he was allowed to enter by the samurai guards. The chambers themselves were empty, for the Emperor was outside on the balcony. The Sun Emperor heard the Praetor enter his chambers and called out to him. Following the sound of the Emperor's voice, Lord Fernando made his way out onto the balcony. The Shogun was also present, as was Niten.

"Thank you for your timely arrival, Praetor," the Sun Emperor nodded to Fernando as the Centralian bowed in respect. He held a steaming cup in his hand and held it up, asking the Praetor, "Would you care for some sake?"

"Thank you, Emperor, but no," the Praetor politely declined. "I have already eaten and drunk my fill at supper. How may I be of service?"

The Sun Emperor stood at the edge of the balcony, leaning on the rail, watching the sun sink into the west. As the Praetor asked his question, he finally turned around, gestured for everyone to take a seat. "As you know, Praetor, I have sent summons all across the empire to the daimyo of the provinces. It will take some time to fully mobilize our armies, but this poses no problem—it would be ill-advised to send a fleet across the Vast Ocean during the winter, anyway. Until the arrival of spring, we will not be going anywhere."

"I understand," the Praetor nodded.

The Emperor pulled over one of the wooden stools near the rail and sat down in front of his three visitors. "As for why I have summoned you here… When I was cleansed by the Itoan shamans, I returned to my senses thinking that it was four years ago. The last thing I remembered was speaking with _you,_ Shogun, about the disturbing dreams I was having… I did not remember anything from the four years I spent as Zamorak's puppet. But over the past two weeks, certain memories have started to return… I go to sleep for the night, but in the morning I wake up with memories that are not mine, fresh in my mind. After a few days, I realized that these are memories from the past four years. I was not completely unaware, you see… Zamorak was present within me, and my consciousness was pushed into a dark corner of my mind…but I was not necessarily helpless.

"You see, whatever part of Zamorak that was in me was privy to all my thoughts, all my memories, my emotions," the Sun Emperor continued to explain, pausing only to take a small sip of his drink. "But it worked both ways. I was able to catch glimpses of the Dark One's own mind, of his plans…and earlier this morning, I remembered something that I had learned from the Dark One himself, concerning a prophecy and a boy blessed by Fate. And if your military leaders are not informed of what I have learned, then disaster will befall your kingdom. You see, your leadership believes they are being invaded from the east…"

* * *

**End of Act I**


	24. Chapter 24: The Fourth Element

**Act II: Night**

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Fourth Element

"_My latest attempt was successful, my lord,_" the misty, hazy apparition of the woman in the red cloak spoke.

The one whom she was addressing shifted in his throne, still rather deep in thought. The campaigns had been going very well for him, so far, and this latest news was simply icing on the proverbial cake. He gave a single nod to the woman's specter. "You have done well. Finish the Awakening process, then take him to the Island. You, Zemouregal, and Kharshai will be responsible for completing his training, as well as his mind. Remind him of who he truly is."

"_Kharshai, my lord?_" the woman seemed to frown. "_Is that wise? I can never tell-_"

"Are you questioning me?" the shadowy figure on the throne's voice grew deadly quiet.

"_No, my lord,_" the woman's apparition stepped back, averting her eyes.

"I am aware of your opinion of Kharshai. I myself have a hard time seeing his motives… We can better keep an eye on _him,_ as well, if he is on the Island with you," the figure on the throne explained himself, fully aware of the fact that he did not need to. The woman would obey him without question regardless. "Now leave me."

With that, the apparition of the woman in the red cloak vanished, leaving the throne room empty once more, save the throne's occupant.

The shadowy figure did not move very much, nor did he give any great, outward reaction to the news he had just received. Instead, he steepled his fingers and allowed himself a faint, ghost of a grin, returning once more to his deep thoughts.

"_Your move, Saradomin_."

* * *

Enakhra severed the connection with her master, taking a moment to get her bearings back. Long-range projection always left her somewhat disoriented for a minute or so, but it was nothing she couldn't deal with.

She had been expecting to be in an extremely good mood—her mission was finally a success, her son was finally in her care once more, after being lost for forty long years…but she had a hard time smiling. She had just been informed that she was going to have to spend the next who-knew-how-many months with one of the people she trusted the least, and one of the people she hated the most. Staying on the Island with Kharshai and Zemouregal was not what she would consider an ideal vacation.

Right now, the two Mahjarrat were somewhere on the western shore of the River Salve, having teleported away from a Centralian ambush. Using the waters of the river, Enakhra had removed the two arrows from her arm and shoulder, healing the wounds. Her son lay on the ground in front of Zemouregal, who was sitting on the trunk of a dead, fallen tree. The Mahjarrat was still looking at her, obviously wanting answers.

"Well?" he asked. "What does the boss say?"

"We're taking him to the Fire Temple," Enakhra replied. She turned around and walked over to where Zemouregal was sitting, crouching down next to her son. She grasped the Mahjarrat youngling by the underarms and dragged him over to the fallen tree, propping him against it so that he was sitting up. "Zamorak wants us to complete his Awakening."

"He wants you and me to go on a trip together, you mean," Zemouregal grinned.

Enakhra's expression did not change. "He wants us to finish my son's Awakening," she repeated herself.

"Us. _Together_."

That old, familiar anger flared up deep inside Enakhra, but she quickly suppressed it. Instead, she gave her counterpart a smile—something which usually never happened. "And once we're finished Awakening him, we are to take him to the Island. Just the two of us, teaching the boy to hate like a true Mahjarrat. You like the sound of that?"

"Sounds like _family,_" Zemouregal was smiling on the outside, though on the inside he was hesitating. After all the years of toying with Enakhra's dislike for him, he knew that whenever she started _reciprocating_…she was likely toying with him right back. And it bothered him slightly that he could not figure out her angle. So instead, he focused on the here and now, arching an eyebrow as he watched Enakhra sit her son up against his tree. "What are you doing with him?"

"We will have to revive him for the Awakening," Enakhra explained. "We do not want him running off on us, now, do we?"

"That _would_ be counterproductive."

Enakhra started muttering under her breath, chanting in the ancient, nearly-forgotten language of Freneskae—the realm from whence the Mahjarrat had first come to Gielinor, brought to the desert by Icthlarin. She pulled out her knife and held it up. As she continued to chant, the knife rose into the air of its own accord and floated over to Avis's throat, where it started to draw tiny runes in a circle around his neck.

The dagger was slow and methodical, working its way across the boy's throat, around the nape of his neck, and back to the front, etching runes into his flesh like a quill scrawling around a circle of parchment. The knifepoint penetrated deep enough to draw blood, but the wounds did not actually bleed—when Enakhra's spell was finished, it looked as if someone had written around Avis's neck in red ink. They would never get infected, but they would also never heal; not unless the spell was broken or removed.

Once she was finished, Enakhra sheathed her knife and let Avis fall back against the tree.

"Is that what I think it is?" Zemouregal nodded to the band of writing around the Mahjarrat youngling's neck. "Did you just Collar him?"

"We used all the venom on that arrow; until we get more, Blood magic will have to suffice," the she-Mahjarrat explained. "We're fortunate at least _one_ of us has an ounce of intelligence."

"Don't be so hard on yourself; I think you're plenty smart, too!"

Enakhra took a deep breath, slowly counting to five in her mind. She gathered her son up into her arms and, without another word, concentrated upon her next destination and tapped into the magical energy flowing through her body and soul. She experienced the brief, disorienting feeling of being sucked through a howling vortex as the world was washed out by a bright flare of indigo light.

When the light subsided, the first thing the she-Mahjarrat felt was the heat. Gradually, as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, she got her bearings. Sand dunes stretched into the horizon in all directions, dotted with cactus plants. Up ahead, however, the monotony was broken by a cluster of giant boulders. And in the centre of the rock formations…a cracked, circular stone structure, with a deep red energy glowing from within.

There was another flash of indigo light behind Enakhra as Zemouregal followed her into the desert.

"Someone's in a bit of a hurry…" the Mahjarrat remarked.

_Don't answer him,_ Enakhra thought to herself as she started heading towards the Fire Temple. _Don't answer him, or he'll end up dead…_

The two Mahjarrat reached the Fire Temple. As they neared the glowing dolmen, the world seemed to warp, as if they were walking into a tunnel through space. Enakhra hated entering the elemental temples—it always gave her headaches. The Mahjarrat finally emerged through the warping space of the temple entrance into the temple itself.

The Fire Altar was located at the top of a small, barren hill. There was no grass, and all of the trees on it were dead and charred. The entire area was made up of hills similar to these, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Rivers of lava flowed between these hills, effectively turning them into islands, and the Fire Altar hill was no exception.

Enakhra walked to the top of the hill and laid her son down on top of the altar. Zemouregal touched Avis on the forehead and muttered something under his breath. The boy reacted to whatever he said, mumbled something unintelligble, his eyelids fluttering. The Mahjarrat rolled his eyes and opted for a somewhat cruder method—he slapped the boy across both cheeks. "Time to wake up, prophecy-boy."

Avis woke with a start, springing into a sitting-up position, his heart pounding. He looked around wildly, trying and failing to figure out where he was. The first thing he felt was a slight stinging sensation around his neck, and then the intense heat of the lava-filled environment. He then saw the two Mahjarrat who had brought him here…and the memories all came rushing back.

The forest. The rain. The blood staining the front of his mentor's robes.

A terrible rage tore through Avis, and he leaped off the altar, sprinting straight at Zemouregal…only to feel a horrible, burning sensation in his throat that suddenly stopped him from moving forward. His legs swept out from under him and he fell to the ground, clutching at his throat. It felt like someone had lassoed him with a rope of fire, but he could not feel anything constricting around his neck.

"Avis, this is no way to behave yourself," Enakhra tsked. "Please get back onto the Fire Altar; we are going to Awaken you to the Fourth Element."

Avis got back to his feet, but made no move toward the altar. "Did you kill him?"

Enakhra's smile was a frozen one. "I will not ask you again."

"Did. You. _Kill_. Him?" the Mahjarrat youngling repeated himself, still not moving an inch.

Finally losing patience, Enakhra held out a hand and clenched it into a fist, drawing upon the energy of the spell she had placed on her son. Avis's breath was cut off as he was suddenly lifted off the ground by the spell around his neck, his legs kicking uselessly in the air, much to Zemouregal's amusement. Enakhra brought Avis back over the Fire Altar, setting him back down on top, allowing him to breathe once again.

Avis glared at Zemouregal, who was leaning against one of the stone pillars, laughing to his heart's content. "Something funny?" he growled.

"Why, now that you mention it, _yes,_" Zemouregal grinned, his crimson eyes flashing for a moment. "Your mother put a Collar spell on you. It is something we put on infants until they reach adolescence. Basically, it is our equivalent of a pacifier. You…you, my boy…you are wearing a Mahjarrat _pacifier,_" the Mahjarrat had to struggle to get the last part of his sentence out—his laughter was only getting louder.

"Not helping, Zemouregal. Not helping," Enakhra sighed. She snapped her fingers several times, getting her son's attention. "Avis, Avis, dear… You may not believe me, but I actually do not enjoy causing you pain. Please, do us all a favor, and concentrate on mingling your energies with those of the altar."

Avis responded by spitting at her feet.

"Oh, enough of this," Zemouregal yawned, straightening up from the pillar he had been leaning against, baring his arms. "If he will not cooperate, we'll draw out his energy ourselves. Hold him still, will you?"

Enakhra stepped up to the edge of the altar. "Last chance, child." When Avis made no move to obey her commands, she gave a quiet sigh, invoking the Collar spell once more. "Have it your way, then."

Avis nearly choked when the band of writing carved into his neck constricted on him. He cringed, feeling the presence of another against his mind. He knew it was Zemouregal. He started to feel the strangest thing… He could feel the vast, seemingly limitless elemental energy within the altar simmering underneath him. But now the energy within him was becoming agitated. Almost as if his heartbeat was quickening, but it was his energy that was being affected, not his blood.

Avis tried to fight it, but Zemouregal's presence was too strong. Bit by bit, the older Mahjarrat was able to manipulate the elemental energy of the Altar into mingling with Avis's dormant energy, which sparked it like lowering a torch to a tray of gunpowder, bringing it blazing to life. Avis did not revert to his true form, this time, nor did he feel any pain like he had in the Water and Earth Temples.

A vortex of fiery red energy engulfed the altar, and Avis rose several feet into the air, at the heart of the maelstrom. Blistering heat started pulsing out from the altar, forcing the Mahjarrat to shield themselves. The light of the energy grew brighter and brighter until it was nearly impossible to look at. Finally, a critical point was reached, and the light subsided, the altar becoming dormant once more. The whole thing had taken two minutes, at most.

Avis took several deep breaths as he dropped back down onto the altar, rubbing at his neck tenderly. He did not know what exactly this 'Collar Spell' for Mahjarrat infants was, but he was already hating it with a passion. He held out his hand and, to his surprise, was able to conjure a mote of flame without even having to really think about it. He twirled it around his fingers, watching it with fascination. Jerrod seemed to have been right when he'd said that Fire was Avis's natural element.

_Jerrod_…

Avis's fascination with the Fire faded away, and he let the flame dissipate. He looked up at his mother, but this time there was no surge of hatred, no flaring anger. No kind of fire burning within him. All he could see was his mentor, bleeding out with an arrow in his chest. The last thing he had seen before losing consciousness was Jerrod's mournful gaze, and it really started to hit home for him, right then, that he would likely never see the old grouch again.

It just… Jerrod being dead, it just…seemed so very unreal. Unbelievable. But now Avis was beginning to believe.

Avis's previous defiance, his will to resist, crumbled as he released the Fire. He was fully Awakened, now. The power of the four elements was at his disposal… And although he hadn't the slightest idea _how,_ he would now be able to invoke the Fifth Element.

Now that he was in Zamorak's clutches, he knew that he was perfectly capable of acting as the Dark God's weapon. He knew that Zamorak would not kill him at this point…but also, that he would never give up until Avis's mind was his. And this made the boy feel numb; for what chance would a child have against a God? Sure, he could fight the good fight for a short while…but in the end, the Dark God would get what he wanted.

Enakhra shifted uncomfortably, finding herself wishing that her son would continue to yell and fight. She did not know what to make of his silence. She shook her head once and turned away from the altar, walking towards the exit portal. "We're done here," she said.

The three Mahjarrat stepped through the exit portal, returning to the Fire Temple's entrance, back in the Kharidian Desert. Enakhra brought her son over to her and held him by the arm so that she could teleport him with her. They remained in the desert for less than a minute before teleporting away once again.

The haze of indigo light vanished once more, and Enakhra found herself standing in front of a small stone temple. The land they had arrived in was filled with shadow and a permanent veil of smoky haze hung in the sky. Even in the middle of the day, this land still had the appearance of deepest night. The only reason the area around the temple was illuminated was because it was surrounded by a natural moat of lava, which Enakhra would later enchant with teleportation-blocking spells.

Avis allowed himself to be taken into the temple. Enakhra and Zemouregal brought him up a flight of stairs and into a small, dimly-lit room with what Avis believed to be a Chaos altar, where Zamorackians were able to pray. The she-Mahjarrat nudged her son into the room, remaining outside.

"This is one of my master's temples," she explained. "There is no escape from this island. You will not be able to leave this temple, or this room, unless we allow it. You will not be able to make any form of contact with anyone who is not on this island, unless we allow it, which we won't. Your time here will not end until my master _wishes_ it to end… If you pray to him, if you genuinely _pray_ to him at this altar, he will hear you. And by then, you will be ready. Put your faith in Zamorak, child…he is your only hope, now."

And with that, Enakhra closed the door. Before walking away, she unsheathed her knife and brought the blade across her palm, drawing blood. She then placed her hand on the door and quickly drew a sigil, which would prevent Avis from even _touching_ it, let alone opening it. After healing the cut on her palm, _then_ she walked away.

"That was a nice speech," Zemouregal remarked as they headed back down the stairs. "Did you rehearse that?"

"No."

"Really? Because it sounded like you rehearsed-"

"No."

Zemouregal gave a nonchalant shrug, stepping down the last few steps into the Chaos Temple's main chamber, only to stop dead in his tracks. The temple's entrance was open, and standing in the doorway was a tall, muscular man with yellow-blonde hair and a fully-grown, forked beard. He was shirtless, wearing pants made of a greenish cloth, thick boots, and long gloves that reached up to his elbows.

He also had crimson eyes.

"_Kharshai,_" Zemouregal gave a forced smile. "What an…unpleasant surprise…"

"Surprise?" Kharshai arched an eyebrow, stepping into the temple. The doors closed behind him on their own. "I was under the impression that Zamorak had informed you of my presence here."

Enakhra touched her forehead in mock frustration. "Oh, how forgetful of me!" she exclaimed sheepishly, turning to Zemouregal. "Did I not mention that Kharshai was going to be joining us for the duration of the child's time on the Island?"

"No, Enakhra. No, you did not," Zemouregal's scowl, in that moment, was worth all the gold in Uzer to the she-Mahjarrat. It then occurred to Enakhra that that she could not exactly use that saying, anymore, seeing as Uzer was now nothing more than a pile of rubble.

As Zemouregal stalked off, muttering something under his breath about 'third wheels', Enakhra started heading back to the staircase. There was a fireplace upstairs that she could light—she felt like sitting down. "Do make yourself at home, my friend," she said to Kharshai as she walked up the stairs. "We have a long wait ahead of us."


	25. Chapter 25: Fell Tidings

Chapter Twenty-Five: Fell Tidings

Jerrod stood on the dock, staring out into the distance. The sun was setting over the ocean, casting the shores in a brilliant amber radiance. The ocean waters sparkled in the sunlight, and a cool, relaxing breeze wafted over the beaches from the west.

The Cleric had thought that he'd remembered seeing a forest, or grassy hills of some sort beyond the shores…but when he looked now, there was nothing but void. Slowly but surely, his world was coming to an end. There was a small ship tied to the pier, and the Cleric had the feeling that he was supposed to board it…but something kept him back, anchored to the dock, staring out into the sunset.

Sometimes he would feel a slight twinge of pain in his chest, but whenever he examined himself there was nothing to see. He felt content, for the most part…but again, there was something holding him back, something stopping him from boarding that ship. He could not explain the feeling, but he did not need to—there was no one else on the shores but him.

He was completely alone.

"_Wrong,_" a voice spoke from behind him.

Jerrod turned around, facing the owner of the voice. "Wrong?" he asked.

Saradomin lowered his hood, basking in the sunlight. He joined Jerrod on the pier, standing beside him. "You were just thinking that you were completely alone. You were wrong."

"Been a few months since we've chatted," the Cleric remarked, turning back to the ocean. "I don't think this place is real, though."

"Oh, it is very real," Saradomin countered. "If something exists in one's mind, it is not any less real than something that exists in the corporeal world."

"So I am dead, then," Jerrod sighed. "I remember being in a forest…and it was raining. Nowhere near any oceans… There was an arrow in my chest, if I recall. I was dying. Now I am here. Smells like Afterlife to me."

"You're not quite dead, yet," Saradomin said. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at the dark mists beyond the beach. "Very, very close, though. Soon, even these shores will be consumed."

"What happens then?"

Saradomin gestured at the ship moored to the pier. "Your soul will continue onward. You have a ship, I see…it varies from person to person. Eventually, you will have to board it."

"And if I do not?"

"You will," Saradomin replied. "No one ever remains behind."

"Well…where will I go?"

"No one—not even I—can answer that."

"So, what, did you just come here to give me a happy farewell in person?" Jerrod grunted, his curiosity subsiding and his old grouchiness rising back to the surface. "What do you want from me?"

"Your work in Gielinor is not finished, my servant," Saradomin cut to the chase. "I have come with an offer. Without my intervention, you will be dead in minutes. I possess the means to heal you…but you must give me permission to do so."

Jerrod found that he really could not remember much of his life. He remembered a burning village, a broad-shouldered, gray-bearded man swinging a runite sword, bits and pieces of battles against monsters, a rainy forest, a lush swamp…nothing but flashes. And as he thought about it, he found that he was feeling extremely tired…perhaps it _was_ time to rest.

"I don't know…" Jerrod sighed, reaching up and running a hand over one of the ship's wooden rails. "I feel weary, so very weary… I've been hesitant for some reason, but maybe taking the ship is the right thing to do. Perhaps my time here is done."

"_Avis._"

Jerrod froze, the name stirring something deep within the fragments of his mind. "What did you say?"

Saradomin repeated the name. And this time, he pressed his hand to Jerrod's forehead. A tumult of images and memories came crashing back to him, like an electric shock ripping through his brain. A wide, toothy grin; crimson eyes…flying through a burning city on a magic carpet, sparring in the middle of a swamp, a town wall crashing to the ground…an arrow in his chest, blood seeping down the front of his robes…and finally, the crimson eyes closed, and the onslaught of images ceased.

Jerrod was heaving for breath, clutching at his chest. A lump had risen in his throat, and his eyes stung. "I'd forgotten…I'd forgotten everything…"

"When souls pass on, they do so unburdened with the memories of their past lives," Saradomin explained. "I'm sure you still remembered flashes, but even they would have faded with your journey. What is it to be, then? Do you still wish to pass from this world?"

"I cannot leave this world with the boy in Zamorak's hands…" Jerrod murmured. "Yes, I give you permission to restore me."

"You would return for the boy? Not to defeat Zamorak? You grow too attached to the Mahjarrat brat for your own good," Saradomin cautioned. "Your emotions will cloud your judgment if you allow them to rule over you."

"Less talking, more resurrecting, please."

Saradomin gave a faint smile and reached into the folds of his robes, drawing out something small, round, and bright. Upon closer inspection, Jerrod saw that it was a fruit…a yellow fruit, glowing with the radiance of a small sun. He held it out to Jerrod, who took it from him.

"I'm supposed to eat this?" the Cleric examined the glowing fruit. "What is it?"

"A cure for the incurable," was all Saradomin said in reply. "You needn't know more."

Jerrod gazed at the fruit hesitantly…but, having no other choice, he brought it up to his lips.

* * *

Decius stared up at the ceiling of the recovery tent he had been stuck in since the night before. It was his first time getting wounded, and it was not turning out to be a particularly pleasant experience. The morning after the day he had been out on patrol, Decius and the rest of his unit had returned to the lines commanded by the IV Legion just in time for the opening assault of the Zamorackian hordes. The attack had been relatively light, comprising mostly of werewolves and undead, led by a handful of death knights.

It had been a death knight that had gotten Decius. The young soldier and his comrades spent nearly ten minutes holding a stubborn shield wall, preventing the attacking undead and werewolves from breaking through, until they were set upon by one of the death knights.

The legionaries had pulled back and encircled the death knight, with all the men playing defense against the monster, striking at it only when its back was turned. Unfortunately, a death knight was always a force to be reckoned with, and it managed to kill three men and wound another four before Calavius—Decius's centurion—was able to strike the finishing blow.

Decius had become one of those four wounded men when he had failed to get clear after scoring a hit on the death knight's leg. The monster had swung its sword around and sliced across Decius's stomach, very nearly disemboweling the young man. Decius and his sergeant, Viriles, had managed to keep his guts from spilling out, however, long enough for the medics to get him into one of the field hospitals.

And now here he lay, his stomach all stitched up, sterilized, and bandaged. He would remain in the recovery tent until a medicus declared him fit for duty, which he hoped would happen in a very short while. It was less of a desire to get back to the fighting, and more of an earnest wish to get the hell out of the hospital tents.

The only surprise of the day—other than staying alive, Decius supposed—came when the young legionary turned to the wounded man beside him, only to find that it was none other than the older man from the woods, the one whom he, Viriles, and the others had rescued from those two Mahjarrat. He was deathly pale and did not even seem to be breathing...but there had to still be some small shred of life within him, else the medics would have taken him away. When Decius asked about the man, the soldier was told that he had been poisoned by the arrow he had gotten hit by, and was not expected to live much longer. In fact, the medics were surprised that he had even made it through the night—it was almost dawn outside.

Everything was quiet. Most of the wounded men were asleep, and the medical staff were resting as well. There were a few medics on duty to continue tending to those who needed attention, who would be able to fetch a surgeon if necessary, but that was it. Decius listened to the heavy breathing, the snoring coming from some of the others. He heard muttering, groans, even some screaming at times—he could only imagine what sort of nightmares the screaming men were having.

At some point, Decius's own eyes drifted closed. When he opened them again, he thought it was daytime, because the first thing he saw was light shining against the ceiling. But as he gathered his wits about him, the young soldier realized that the light was coming from _inside,_ not outside. And it was coming from right next to him.

Decius looked to his left, and his heart nearly gave out when he saw the older man in the adjacent cot. The older man's body was glowing a brilliant yellowish golden light, almost as if someone had shrank the sun and put it inside of him. The light intensified until it was difficult to look at directly…but then it vanished, plunging the tent back into darkness.

The snoring and heavy breathing had not stopped. Everyone was still asleep.

But as Decius continued to watch, the older man's back arched. He gasped, sucking down air with the vigor of a man stumbling across an oasis in the desert after nearly dying of thirst. After a few moments, though, he calmed down, taking slower, steadier breaths.

Then his eyes flew open.

* * *

Amphiryon Straume, Fleetmaster of the Royal Centralian Navy, closed his eyes as he drew the bow across the strings of his fiddle. His primus—_first officer,_ Marellus, sat opposite the Fleetmaster, holding his pipe up to his lips. Together, the two officers were playing a piece from Artemidoros's _Ballad of a Falling Sky_—one of the many great pieces of music conceived during the Unification Wars that ended with Pendragon the Unifier's forging of the Centralian Kingdom. The piece was better performed with a proper orchestra, but Straume and Marellus made do with their own instruments.

The piece had words, too, but Straume and Marellus rarely sang them. Their skill was in their instruments, not their voices. The Fleetmaster contented himself by humming along with the melody, even as he played the harmony from his fiddle. The two of them were just reaching one of the final crescendos, but they never made it to the climax—they were interrupted by Midshipman Feris.

The boy poked his head into the cabin, clearing his throat to get his superiors' attention. "Sirs, you have been summoned by the watch," the Midshipman reported.

The officers put their instruments down, plunging the captain's cabin into an almost uncomfortable silence. "What's the time, Mister Feris?" Straume asked, rising to his feet and grabbing his coat.

"Half past six, sir," the Midshipman replied, forcing himself to keep from fidgeting in discomfort—he had never before seen the inside of the captain's cabin, and he'd been expecting to give the Admiral the message and duck back out…not to be kept lingering at the door.

"_Dawn_… Thank you, son—you are dismissed," Straume nodded to the Midshipman, not noticing the subtle sigh of relief that the boy breathed as he filed out of the cabin. The Fleetmaster donned his greatcoat and fixed his three-cornered Admiral's hat to his crown. "Your thoughts, _Primus?_" he asked his first officer.

"Lieutenant Khrios is the officer on watch," the first officer replied. "He's a bit of a jumpy one with the watch, especially during the dawn hours."

Straume gave a hum of agreement. The _Resolute_ had beaten to quarters more than a few times in the past due to phantoms spotted by Lieutenant Khrios, much to the crew's chagrin. Straume himself had to admit that such false alarms were irritating to him, but he did not complain—better to be grumpy and alive rather than surprised and subsequently blown to pieces.

"I pray the watch has only spotted another ghost," Admiral Straume murmured, buckling his saber and pistol to his waist and stepping out of the cabin, his _primus_ right on his heels. The two officers made their way through the top gun deck, where ratings slept in their bunks amidst the warship's cannons. There were still a couple sailors who were awake, and whenever a man crossed paths with Straume and Marellus, he would stop to offer a quick salute before continuing on his way.

The Admiral climbed up one of the ladders onto the deck, trading salutes with the handful of ratings pulling the night's watch. There were hushed murmurings coming from the men, but the only other sound was the steady creaking of the ship's timber, and the lapping of water against the _Resolute's_ hull.

The morning was cold, and Straume found himself wishing he'd worn his gloves. It was early to mid-Wintumber, now. Winter would not officially begin for another week or two, but the weather already felt like a snowfall was just around the corner. There was a light mist about this part of the ocean—not heavy enough to prevent the crew from observing their surroundings, but enough to make spotting anything on the horizon a difficult task.

The Admiral headed up towards the ship's bow, giving a respectful nod to Honoria—the _Resolute's_ figurehead. He singled out Lieutenant Khrios and called over to the junior officer, heading his way.

Lieutenant Khrios walked over to the rail, gesturing for Admiral Straume to follow him. He held his arm out straight, pointing in the direction in which he had seen whatever had given him cause to summon the Admiral. "Three points off the port bow, sir. Alert was given to me by Midshipman Feris," Khrios recounted to his superior. "It was him and Mister Reddick who spoke of spotting flashing lights on the horizon, or something of the like. I took a look myself, but saw no lights… But I thought I saw a shape for a moment."

Admiral Straume extended his spyglass and peered off into the horizon, searching for any signs of movement, for anything that would have given justification for the ship's being brought up to full alert. It was difficult to see anything clearly through the mist that veiled the horizon, but the Admiral was persistent. He remained motionless, inching his gaze bit by bit across the east. Dawn's first light was beginning to paint the skies a soft, light blue. After a minute of searching, Admiral Straume found that his gaze had wandered upwards to observe the early sunlight brightening the sky. He shook his head once and returned his gaze to the horizon, making another sweep…when he froze. Just as he'd started to turn, he thought he'd seen a dark shape in the mist, silhouetted faintly against the eastern horizon.

Straume looked back to where he had seen the phantom, but there was nothing but mist. He lowered the spyglass and wiped the lens off on his jacket, getting rid of any possible moisture fogging up the glass. He looked to the east once again, but still saw nothing.

Still…the seeds of doubt had been planted, and Admiral Straume could not ignore them. It was possible he had seen nothing…but there came a point where sheer probability gave the Admiral the answer he needed. Mister Reddick, Midshipman Feris, and Lieutenant Khrios had all reported seeing something out there, and now Straume himself thought he had spotted something…between four people, the phantom out there was probably a bit more real than most people would have liked to believe.

It was enough for Straume. The Admiral slapped his spyglass closed and stowed it. He left the rail and strode up to the steering deck and ordered Mister Syrio, the helmsman, to change course to the east, moving in the direction of the phantom.

It was only when the sun rose and the morning breeze banished the mists that the phantom was spotted once again. At first, the sailor in the crow's nest pointed eastward and mentioned the presence of what appeared to be another vessel. Within two minutes of that proclamation, the _Resolute_ drew close enough for Admiral Straume to see the other ship with the naked eye. A dark shadow on the horizon, with tiny spokes for masts.

The Centralian Fleetmaster peered through his spyglass once again, in order to get a better look. He instantly recognized the almost bulky curvature of a man-of-war, could even barely see moving figures on the ship's deck. He looked up to the top of the other ship's mainmast, saw the scarlet flag with the golden eagle and crossed gladii. _Centralian colors_.

"She's one of ours," the Admiral said to Marellus, who was standing next to him, gazing out at the other ship through his own spyglass.

"So she is, so she is…" Marellus murmured, squinting as he tried to get a clearer view. "Coming from the east... We're just southwest of the tail of the Kharidian Desert. What was one of our vessels doing east of the desert? We're not supposed to have any naval presence beyond this area—that's Drakan's territory."

"Blown off-course by the early winter storms, perhaps?" Straume suggested.

"Perhaps," Marellus echoed. "Still… Something does not—_hold fast!_"

Admiral Straume grunted in surprise as well when he saw the small explosions of light coming from the far side of the other Centralian ship, watched as the other ship started to turn westward—towards the _Resolute_.

"That was cannonfire, sir," Marellus declared, compacting his spyglass, having seen all there was to see. "We're well out of range, so they're shooting at something else."

"They're under attack," Admiral Straume hummed in agreement. He turned to his primus and gave him a single nod. "Give the order: beat to quarters."

"Aye, sir," Marellus touched his finger to his brow and moved away from the rail, striding right into the heart of the ship's deck, bellowing at the top of his lungs, "_Beat to quarters lads!_"

The Primus's booming voice carried all throughout the Centralian flagship, rousing a good many of the slumbering men even before the royal marine with the large drum started rolling out the drumbeats that signaled the ship's beating to quarters. Ratings churned out of the hatchways from below, scrambling to their posts on the deck guns. Down on the gun decks, the men and junior officers would be readying the _Resolute's_ main battery.

The complement of royal marines, under the command of Centurio Cassian, all thundered onto the deck as well, fully armored and armed to the teeth. They were accompanied by Regulus and Iovis, the two ship's mages. Now, the _Resolute_ was ready for a fight.

The crew remained at the ready as the _Resolute_ plowed through the waves. The wind favored them, today—Mister Syrio was able to hold this course without any difficulty. The flagship's course had not been set directly toward where Straume and the others had spotted the other Centralian ship, either. Mister Syrio guided the _Resolute_ towards the area where, judging by the direction of the wind, the other ship would end up by the time the _Resolute's_ battlegroup reached its position.

By the time the other Centralian ship drew near, Admiral Straume could see that it was being pursued by a larger vessel with black sails. The black-sailed ship seemed to possess bow cannons—every few minutes or so, it would open fire at the Centralian vessel.

Admiral Straume could already spot damage on the other Centralian ship, but nothing that had compromised its speed. As he observed the two ships, the Fleetmaster could see why the Centralian vessel was fleeing the black-sailed ship rather than making a stand. If his countrymen decided to stay and fight, it was likely they would lose their ship in the fight—the enemy vessel had a substantial gunnery.

But with _two_ Centralian vessels—one of them being the flagship of the entire fleet, no less—the black-sailed ship could find itself in some measure of trouble.

Straume could see a flag waving atop the black-sailed ship, as well. This standard bore the image of a bat within a circle of crimson. Admiral Straume instantly recognized the symbol. "_Drakan_…" the Fleetmaster muttered. The vampyres were, to Straume's knowledge, the only Zamorackian race to field a navy. He had clashed with them many times on the high seas, and he had not enjoyed any of those occasions.

Even as the _Resolute_ approached the two vessels, the Centralian ship suddenly started to change course, turning to starboard.

"_Admiral, sir!_" Marellus exclaimed from the bow of the ship, pointing toward the other Centralian warship. "_Signal flags!_"

Admiral Straume raised his spyglass once more. The other warship was close enough for the Fleetmaster to see the individual men crewing it. An officer was standing at the starboard rail of the other warship, bearing brightly-colored signal flags, moving them into the positions that would convey the message he wanted to give to Straume.

"Course correction, Mister Syrio," Straume said to the helmsman. "Thirty-five degrees to starboard. Put us along the vamps' left side. Let's see if we can do this by the book… _Larboard battery at the ready!_"

"_Larboard battery, aye!_" the reply was relayed up from below.

"_Primus,_ get below and oversee the cannons!" Straume ordered his first officer. Marellus obeyed, sliding belowdecks down one of the ladders. The Admiral then ordered Lieutenant Khrios to identify the Centralian warship.

Centurio Cassian was barking orders as well, organizing the _Resolute's_ complement of marines into formation. Ratings scrambled to man the deck guns, while other men climbed the rigging to adjust the trim of the sails. Steadily, the _Resolute_ arced toward the vampyre ship while the Centralian vessel turned away.

The vampyre ship saw what Straume was going to do and ceased its pursuit of the other Centralian vessel, trying to turn into the wind to avoid the _Resolute_…but it was too late. The _Resolute_ drew up alongside the vampyre ship, and Straume gave the order to open fire.

The _Resolute_ and the vampyre ship both opened fire at the same time, raking each other in a textbook broadside maneuver. Broadside maneuvers were where the _Resolute_ reigned supreme. A lesser ship would have sustained significant damage from such an exchange of fire, but the _Resolute_ was no ordinary warship. It was the Centralian Navy's flagship, possessing a much thicker hull. This sacrificed speed for durability, but it was a tradeoff that Straume was content with.

A couple of enemy shots did manage to wreak some havoc down on the gun decks, but the majority of them were repulsed. The vampyre ship slagged to the side, crippled by the barrage. Down below, Straume could hear Marellus bellowing at the gun crews to reload their batteries. By then, the _Resolute_ was drawing past the stern of the enemy ship.

"_Hard a'larboard!_" Admiral Straume cried, gripping the wooden rail.

"Hard a'larboard, aye!" Mister Syrio wrenched the helm to the left, bringing the _Resolute_ swinging around in the same direction. The gun crews worked at fever pitch, laboring to reload the larboard battery. They had trained for this time after time, so they were able to ready the batteries by the time the _Resolute_ cut across the enemy ship's stern.

Hitting an enemy through the stern was usually the checkmate of naval combat. The weaker hull at the stern allowed a barrage to quite literally gut a ship from stem to stern with minimal effort.

Even while abovedecks, Admiral Straume could still hear Primus Marellus howling "_Finish them!_" at the top of his lungs, just before the larboard battery thundered once again, tearing into the vampyre ship.

It was the _Resolute's_ lucky day. Sometimes, after destroying an enemy ship, the vampyres would dispatch vyrewatch to assail the Centralians from the air…but either this vampyre ship did not have any vyrewatch onboard…or if there _had_ been any onboard, perhaps the two barrages had wiped them out. Either way, the enemy ship sank without any more protest.

A very easy victory. Straume recalled many duels he had fought against wily vampyre navarchs, but this particular fight could barely even be called a fight. More like target practice. And so, the real highlight of the day ended up being the other Centralian warship, rather than the scuffle.

"Admiral, sir, I've spotted the other ship's name!" Lieutenant Khrios exclaimed, still peering through his spyglass at the stern of the Centralian warship. "It's the _Silver Arrow!_"

"That's Arald Harcourt's ship…" the Admiral murmured, recognizing the name. Suddenly, a cascade of memories came rushing back through his mind. He hadn't actually _forgotten_ about the _Silver Arrow,_ obviously, but it had not exactly been the first thing on his mind. He had dispatched Arald Harcourt and his crew to transport Iulus Fernandos, the Praetor of Centralia, to the Ainu Empire in the east. There had been no contact from Harcourt for months.

Once the vampyre ship had completely sunk, and Straume was certain that there would be no survivors, he ordered Mister Syrio to bring the _Resolute_ right up alongside the _Silver Arrow,_ also telling his signalist to relay his intentions to Captain Harcourt. Two or three minutes later, the flagship was drawing right up on the _Silver Arrow's_ starboard side.

Sailors on both ships tossed ropes to each other, and the order was given to drop anchor. Now the two ships were moored to each other and anchored in place. A gangplank was run up from below and set down at one of the access points on the _Resolute's_ larboard side. The crewmen of the _Silver Arrow_ secured their end of the gangplank when it was extended to them, completing the linking of the two ships.

Primus Marellus emerged from the gun decks, his face and overcoat splotched with soot, joining the Fleetmaster as he headed to the gangplank. Straume and Marellus crossed over to the _Silver Arrow,_ accompanied by a detachment of royal marines.

They were greeted on the other ship by a familiar man in a heavy blue coat and three-cornered hat—though he was much gaunter and paler, and his beard much scruffier than Straume remembered. "_Admiral,_ sir," Captain Harcourt clasped his fist to his heart in a salute, bowing his head.

"You are certainly a sight for sore eyes, captain," Admiral Straume returned the salute. "We all feared you dead when contact with you was lost."

"Not dead, sir," Harcourt replied. "Delayed certainly, but not dead."

Admiral Straume took a moment to sweep his gaze across the deck of the _Silver Arrow,_ looking for the one person he needed to see, noticing his absence. When the Fleetmaster did not spot the man, he turned back to Harcourt. "Where is the Praetor, Mister Harcourt?"

"The Praetor has opted to remain in Kātayō, sir. The Ainu are in the process of mobilizing their armies, and the Praetor wishes to return home with their fleet," Captain Harcourt explained. "We would have stayed as well, but there was a message of import that Praetor Fernandos needed to get back home…so he sent us across the ocean to deliver it. We barely made it across before the winter storms settled in. And, as you have just seen, we ran into some company along the way."

"And the message?"

"I've kept it on my own heart ever since he gave it to me," Captain Harcourt reached under his coat and into his layers, drew out a small sheaf of parchment with writing scrawled across one side, presented it to the Fleetmaster. "Better it finds itself in your hands—you can report this directly to the King."

Admiral Straume took the dispatches and peered closely at them, reading the words that Lord Fernando had written. When he was finished, a deep frown had creased his brow, and he read it again. He glanced up at his subordinate navarch. "These words are the truth?"

"They were written and given directly to me by the Praetor," Captain Harcourt replied. "To doubt them would be to doubt _him_."

That was all Straume needed. The Fleetmaster offered Captain Harcourt one final salute. "Then order your helmsman to set a course for Port Sarim. We must get this message to Tethys and to Stellantae with all possible speed, or risk the destruction of our homes."

* * *

Osman leaned forward on the rail of his balcony, staring out into the night sky. On another night, he might have gazed up at the stairs, or even the moon. Tonight, however, he gazed into the black void of a stormy night. Every few seconds, the Centralian King would watch the distant eastern skies flash with lightning.

And below, the countless lights and fires of Tethys, the capital city of Centralia, were laid out like a living carpet, stretching far into the distance. The people of the city had gone to sleep, but the revelers would still be up and about. If Osman strained hard enough, he would be able to hear bits and pieces of music drifting up from the taverns in the city below. Osman allowed himself a faint smile, glad that at least _some_ of his subjects still had the ability to be merry. Sometimes he thought about dressing in commoner's clothing and stealing away into the night to visit one of the pubs or taverns, but he never did. During a time of peace, perhaps…but not when the kingdom was fighting for its very survival.

The King tensed initially when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but it was only reflex. "You're in the wrong bedchamber, milady," Osman remarked, not turning away from the view over the capital, still watching the lightning in the east.

"Sleep eluded me," Lady Aurelia said, slipping up next to the King. "I assumed it paid you the same treatment, and it seems I was right. And you may stop calling me 'milady'."

"Apologies, milady…Aurelia," Osman winced at how awkward he felt using her real name.

Aurelia's reaction was quite the opposite. She broke out into a peal of laughter, gripping the rail and leaning over it herself. "I do love sweet irony," she hummed. "One of the few men who are not required to call me by my title cannot bring himself to do so. Am I really so intimidating?"

"A force of nature is what you are," Osman sighed, grateful that she could not see his reddening face in the darkness. "A force of nature whose words can bring to heel even the most skilled of orators, and make fools of the most powerful of men."

"Oh, I think I am actually quite ordinary," Lady Aurelia countered. "You are simply loath to admit the obvious. Imagine if everyone knew; the all-powerful, almighty King of Centralia…helpless in the grip of shyness, of all things..."

Osman stiffened again, slightly, as Aurelia slipped her hand into his. Thunder growled in the distance, but the King paid it no heed—he focused his attention on his friend, now. She was very close to his own age—perhaps a year older. And what a curious specimen she was…her life as the niece of a Proconsul had matured her beyond her years, but she still managed to retain much of the spark of her youth. Of course, she did not have to deal with the war nearly as much as Osman did.

"I am not shy," was all Osman could think of to say in response, but it came out rather halfhearted.

"_Look at me,_" Aurelia touched Osman's chin, turning his head so that he was facing her. "Nothing can touch us, here."

Osman stared into her face, and something in his heart fluttered. He'd been suppressing his emotions for too long. The death of King Lionel, his father, had dumped a lot of responsibility onto Osman's shoulders. And now, with Athellenas and Lord Fernando no longer by his side, the pressure had become much more acute. And Osman honestly believed he might have suffered some form of mental breakdown if he had not met Lady Aurelia the year before. She was one of the few things—if not, the _only_ thing keeping him sane, at the moment.

But, as he shared Aurelia's gaze, his thoughts were finally turned away from the war and the countless burdens of running a kingdom. A strange sense of resolve entered the King, at that moment, and he leaned forward, touching Aurelia's face, his lips brushing against hers in a gentle kiss.

Aurelia's smile vanished and she returned the gesture. She had been waiting patiently for this for a while. The two close friends—though 'friends' no longer seemed to do their relationship justice—moved back into the bedchamber. King Osman was not aware that they had left the balcony until he found himself falling back into one of his armchairs.

Lady Aurelia lowered herself onto Osman, their kiss still remaining unbroken. The King started to feel a deep passion building up within him, and he matched Aurelia's energy with a renewed vigor as their hands began to slip down from each other's faces.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a sharp series of knocks at the bedchamber door.

"_Saradomin's cock…_" the King swore, breaking off the kiss. He rarely ever uttered such blasphemy…but this time, it was warranted. "What is it now?"

"Just ignore them," Aurelia whispered, laying her head on Osman's shoulder.

"You know I cannot," Osman sighed, forcing himself to stand up, leaving Aurelia in the chair. He crossed over to his bedchamber door and pulled it open, revealing Quintus Junius Vindex—Prefect of the Old Guard.

The silver-haired, weather-faced warrior exchanged a brief salute with his monarch, not bothering to sink to a knee. "Apologies for the late disturbance, my liege," Quintus gave the King an apologetic glance, noticing Aurelia sitting in the armchair. "Amphiryon Straume is downstairs, requesting an immediate audience."

"The Fleetmaster is here?" King Osman arched an eyebrow in surprise. "I thought he was patrolling the waters southwest of the Kharidian Desert."

"Apparently not, unless my senses are deceived. I told him you were not to be disturbed, but he would not be turned away."

"Very well…" Osman massaged the bridge of his nose, taking a step back and putting his hand on the door. "Send him into my study. I'll be down momentarily."

"Your will, sire," Quintus bowed his head slightly, clasping his fist to his heart and taking his leave.

King Osman closed the door and headed back to his bed, where he had hung one of his coats over a bedpost. Lady Aurelia had not moved from the chair, her disapproval plainly evident on her face. "Will they not give you even a single night of peace?" she asked.

"They normally take great pains to avoid disturbing me when I am at rest," King Osman sighed, pulling his coat from the bedpost. He was currently wearing only an undershirt and cloth sleep pants—hardly a suitable attire to greet the Fleetmaster. "And when they do, it is always something that requires immediate attention."

"Surely the kingdom would not crumble if its monarch were allowed his nightly rest?"

"Perhaps you are right…" King Osman donned the blue coat, buttoning it up to around the bottom of his sternum before deciding that he was decent enough. "But what unsettles me most is the fact that the one waiting for me is Admiral Straume. Never before has the Fleetmaster ever found cause to report to me directly, especially without any prior notice. Something is amiss."

Aurelia still was not convinced, but she had the sense to relent on the King. "Well, then, the fate of the kingdom had better depend on what the Fleetmaster has to say. Centralia will not be better off if its King keels over from exhaustion…"

King Osman stepped out of his bedchamber and headed down the corridor. He took the grand stair down to the ground level of the palace, circling around through the corridors to the throne room. He then moved past his throne and entered his private study, where Quintus was standing with Admiral Straume, the Fleetmaster of the Centralian Navy.

Quintus stepped aside, offering one last bow. "I will take my leave," he said, slipping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Admiral Straume still smelled of the ocean, but it was not a smell that Osman minded. "Apologies, my liege," the Fleetmaster said as he saluted the King. "I know the value of a good night's sleep, but I bring to you a matter of import that could not be kept waiting."

"I assumed as much," Osman stifled a yawn, stepping behind his desk and inviting Straume to sit.

The Fleetmaster declined, however. "One of my mages teleported me here from Port Sarim, and I would like to return to my ship as soon as possible. I will try to be quick…" the Admiral took a moment to clear his throat before continuing. "I encountered the _Silver Arrow_ while on patrol, six days ago—Arald Harcourt's ship. Know you the significance of this?"

King Osman's brow was creased in a light frown. "The _Silver Arrow_… Is that not the ship that was tasked with transporting Lord Fernando to the Ainu?"

"The very same," the Fleetmaster nodded. "The Praetor was not on board, however. I will not go into details about this. All is explained in the message given to me by Captain Harcourt—given to _him_ personally by the Praetor," Straume reached into his navy blue greatcoat, drawing out a single piece of parchment and handing it to the King.

King Osman accepted the paper and unfolded it, flattening it on his desk before reading it. Just like the Fleetmaster had done before him, King Osman's face twisted into a scowl when he finished reading, and he went back and read it all again. He looked up at the Fleetmaster when he was finished. "You have seen this?" the King asked the older man.

"I have," Admiral Straume nodded. "Hence my hasty and unexpected arrival. Word of this must be given to the Warmaster immediately."

"Agreed," the King said, though he did not need to—it was already a given. "It gladdens me to no end that the Praetor has secured the aid of the Ainu Empire, but if what the Sun Emperor says is true... Thank you, Fleetmaster, you are dismissed. Send Quintus in on your way out, will you?"

"_Sire,_" Admiral Straume bowed his head and saluted the King, ducking out of the study.

King Osman pulled out a small piece of paper, dipped a quill in an inkwell, and quickly scrawled a note of his own. He then folded his note up with the message from Lord Fernando, sliding everything into a small envelope.

A moment later, Quintus Junius Vindex entered the study. "You requested me?" the Prefect of the Old Guard stepped toward the King's desk.

"Yes, Quintus…" King Osman nodded, mentally noting how Aurelia would have ribbed him for having no trouble being on a first name basis with his Prefect, but not with her. He reached into his desk and produced a rod of red wax. He then pulled out a small candle and lit it, holding the melted end of the red wax into the flame. "Summon your most reliable mage. I need someone with enough skill to teleport to the Stellantae Province. This message must be given directly to Warmaster Athellenas without delay."

The red wax, as it was melted by the candle flame, dripped down onto the envelope. When it hardened, it would seal the envelope shut. Before this happened, however, King Osman removed the royal seal from around his neck, where he always wore it, and pressed it into the half-solidified wax. Once the wax fully hardened, it bore the seal of the King.

"I know a man who would be up to the task," Quintus said. "Dio is his name. Do you wish me to bring the dispatches to him, or shall I bring the man to the palace?"

"Better to bring Dio here, I think," King Osman opted for the second option. "Offense is not intended against you, but I would like to minimize the number of hands that these messages must pass through."

"A wise course of action," Quintus agreed, seeing the reasoning behind the King's decision. "Very well. I will take my leave. Dio is off duty at the moment, so expect my return within the quarter hour."

King Osman waited for the Prefect to depart, waited for the door to close. Once he was alone in the study once again, the King released another long, slow sigh. He sank down into his chair and rested his head down on the desk, folding his hands across the back of his head, taking deep breaths.

"I wish you were still here, father…" the King murmured.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Hello again, readers._

_From the last couple reviews, it seems people were afraid I was stopping my work on this story due to the perceived lack of attention this story seems to suffer from. True, I don't think any of my other stories will quite gain the level of attention that my Halo work enjoyed, but I can assure you that I did not stop working on this story. This wait was due to a number of reasons-I had another creative splurge which resulted in the birth of a new story on this site, which I am working on in concert with this one. My first two weeks of my spring semester were also completely hellish-between rehearsals for one production, auditions and later callbacks for another production, school work, a weekend involving an alcohol-themed cast party for that first production, and a subsequent weekend involving an adventure through West Philly that I can't really talk about on here...I just haven't had the time to finish this chapter until now._

_The previous hiatus was due to severe writer's block; this wait was simply the result of being busy as fuck. But I already have a pretty good and clear idea of how the rest of this story is going to go, right up until the end. I have no intention of stopping my work on this story until it is complete. Just keep in mind, though, that there may be the occasional dry spell in the future...but don't think I've stopped working on this story._

_Because I haven't!_

_Alrighty, then. Until next time._

_-TheAmateur_


	26. Chapter 26: Actions and Reactions

Chapter Twenty-Six: Actions and Reactions

Sir Derren and Paladin Anesti were poring over the maps spread out on the central table in the command tent when Sir Horatio, Commandant of the Rangers, strode inside. He clasped his fist to his heart in a salute, bowing his head to the Auspex. "I bring word from General Vespasian," Sir Horatio reported. "Legio Tertiadecima Regis Felix has repulsed the latest attempt by the vampyres to break our lines."

Sir Derren gave a single nod in response. "Thank you, commandant; that will be all."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but there's more," Sir Horatio paused to clear his throat before continuing. "On my way back from the XIII Legion's lines, I had an encounter with a mage from Tethys, a member of the Old Guard. Wouldn't tell me anything about why he was here, only that he needed to see the Warmaster, concerning a matter of utmost urgency."

"A member of the Old Guard, you say?" that immediately piqued Sir Derren's interest. "Very well. Send him in on your way out."

Sir Horatio saluted the Auspex once more before turning on his heel and ducking back outside. Sir Derren studied the map for another few seconds until a short man with a thick, reddish-brown beard and a ruddy face swept aside the flap and entered the command tent. He was clad in armor that was tinted a reddish hue—not unlike the Warmaster's armor—with a cloak of scarlet and gold.

"Your name and purpose?" Sir Derren asked the mage after exchanging a brief salute with the man.

"Dio is what I'm called, sir," the mage replied. "I need an audience with the Warmaster, right away. There is a message of import I must give him."

Sir Derren's eyes narrowed slightly—he could have sworn he'd smelled alcohol on the other man's breath. "Have you been drinking, soldier?"

"That I have been, sir," Dio nodded. "I was off-duty, I was, enjoying a lager in one of the taverns when my commander sought me out. Drinking, sir, but not drunk. Not even bloody buzzed… _Sir,_" the mage muttered a curse under his breath as he let the profanity slip.

"The Warmaster is not here, at the moment, but you may give me the message."

"No disrespect intended, sir, but I don't actually know what the message is," Dio explained. "And I have very specific orders to give the message to the Warmaster, and no one else. These orders came directly from King Osman, sir."

Luckily, before Sir Derren could even open his mouth to argue, the tent flap was swept aside once more.

The Auspex looked up as the Warmaster strode inside, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. But, as fast as his expression of surprise appeared, it resolved into one of irritation. "You went up to the front lines, again," the knight said. It was more of an accusation than a question.

The Warmaster's armor had been dealt a new round of dents and abrasions. The older man even had several lacerations visible on his legs and abdomen, but he seemed to be ignoring them. Athellenas removed his helmet, relishing the feeling of fresh air against his scalp.

"Not since our breakthrough at Shantay Pass, last summer, have I entreated my blade to a taste of the enemies' blood," Athellenas replied, joining his Auspex at the table. "Until I am claimed by senility, I will not allow myself to grow fat in this tent."

"Very noble of you," Paladin Anesti chuckled.

Athellenas turned to face the man who'd just spoken. Paladin Anesti was clad in grimy, battered armor that bore the four-pointed star of the Church on the chestplate. His dark beard was normally trimmed very short, but it was beginning to grow a little scraggly. "Can I help you, Anesti?" the Warmaster asked, not expecting to find the senior Paladin in the command tent.

"Well, you can refrain from charging headfirst into Zamorak's hordes like raging bull; that will do wonders for my life expectancy," the Paladin remarked.

"Since when is your fate tied to mine?"

"Since I asked him to remain at your side," Sir Derren answered for Anesti.

Athellenas frowned at that. "I appreciate your concern, Derren, but it is unnecessary. I do not go to the front lines for myself—I join the fight wherever the lines are wavering. High-ranking individuals fighting alongside the soldiers does wonders for morale, I find."

"Fighting where the lines are wavering only puts you in even more danger," Sir Derren argued, not willing to budge. "I do not presume to stop you from going up to the front lines, but I must insist you allow Anesti to accompany you."

"Not a chance in hell," the Warmaster replied.

Before anyone could reply to that, someone cleared his throat rather loudly, bringing the argument to a grinding halt. Everyone turned to face Dio, who had been standing next to the entrance flap, twiddling his thumbs. With the Warmaster's sudden arrival, Sir Derren had nearly forgotten about the Old Guardsman.

"This man's name is Dio," Sir Derren said to Athellenas. "He is a member of the Old Guard, and he tells me that he was sent from Tethys to deliver a message. He'll only give it to you."

"_Warmaster, sir!_" the tent flap was pushed aside yet again, allowing Meridius—the chief medicus—into the command tent. Meridius stepped forward to the table, speaking directly to the Warmaster. "Pardon the interruption, sir, but-"

"Saradomin's beard, man, one at a time!" Athellenas thundered, holding up his hands and calling for silence. As the inside of the tent fell quiet, the Warmaster took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he turned to Dio. "My Auspex said you have a message for me?"

"That I do, sir," Dio reached under his armor and produced a sealed envelope, presenting it to the Warmaster.

Athellenas accepted the envelope, noting the royal seal that held it closed. "This is a message from the King?" he asked.

Dio gave a nod. "King Osman was the one who gave it to me, sir, sure as Entrana's full of Saradominists."

"Very well," Athellenas set the envelope down onto the table. "Remain here for a moment. If I need to send a message back to the King, I would like you to deliver it. Now, _medicus,_ you had something you needed to speak to me about?"

"Yes, _Imperator._ It is Jerrod the Lightbringer, sir," Meridius reported. "Your friend, the one with the poisoned arrow wound…" Athellenas braced himself, waiting for the news that he had been both expecting and dreading, "…he has… Well, sir, it's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. Just last night, he was on the verge of death, but then this morning one of my subordinates summons me, and I find the man not only alive, but in perfect health. It's as if Saradomin himself came down to heal him overnight…"

Athellenas was shocked into silence, his heartbeat fluttering, his mouth hanging slightly open. After a few moments, he regained his wits, saying, "He's…he's alive and well, you said?"

"Please do not press me for an explanation, _Imperator,_" the chief medicus requested, "for I have none to give."

"Yes, of course…" the Warmaster picked up his helmet and made for the tent flap. "I would much like to see this miracle with my own eyes."

"Athellenas?" Paladin Anesti cleared his throat, pointing at the envelope in the Warmaster's grasp. "The message?"

Athellenas gave a quiet grunt. He'd forgotten about the message in his joy at hearing of Jerrod's supposed recovery. And while he wanted to visit his old friend straightaway…duty had to come first. The Warmaster returned to the table and broke the royal seal, pulling out two folded pieces of parchment from within. One of them was a neat, pristine sheet, but the other was crinkled, weathered, and looked like it had been dragged through the ocean.

The Warmaster decided to read the weathered note first.

* * *

_My King_

_I pray that this message reaches you with all possible speed. The very fate of our country rests upon its swift delivery into your hands, and subsequently the hands of the Warmaster._

_I have very little time to explain what has transpired here, so I will be brief. We arrived in the Ainu Empire in the middle of a civil war. The Sun Emperor had fallen under Zamorak's spell, and the Shogun went into exile with the goal of eventually liberating him. I was contacted by and brought to the Shogun after my arrival in the Empire, whereupon I was given the full explanation of what was happening. It gives me great joy to be able to report to you that the Ainu conflict is now over, and we were able to restore the Sun Emperor's mind. The Ainu have agreed to join us in our fight._

_But I fear I must soil these good tidings with news of an attack on Centralia. While under Zamorak's taint, the Sun Emperor was actually able to catch glimpses into the Dark One's thoughts, and he has started to remember those glimpses. He shared these glimpses with the Shogun and myself, and we learned two things._

_First, we learned of a prophecy that exists in some form on the Stone of Jas. This prophecy speaks of the end of these wars. It makes particular references towards a certain individual—a Mahjarrat youngling, to be precise—who, according to this prophecy, will be the one who brings the war to an end. The prophecy does not state how he will end this war, nor does it state which God he will end it in favor of. The Sun Emperor told us that Zamorak knew the boy was traveling through Centralia, in the company of none other than Jerrod the Lightbringer. Zamorak badly wants this boy to be under his control. All I can really say is that it would behoove us to ensure that the boy is not captured—anything that Zamorak wants that badly, we would do well to keep away from him. And if that prophecy is indeed true, then that boy is an individual we would want on our side, not Zamorak's._

_And second, the Emperor recalled some of Zamorak's plans for the invasion of Centralia. The Dark One intends to invade across the River Salve from the east, at first. He knows the Warmaster will already be in that region, so it would be convenient for King Osman to send the rest of the army eastward to join Athellenas. But this is just a diversion—another force of unknown size is marching south across the Wilderness border, through the Scutum Arborium, at this very moment. By the time word of this reaches you from the north, it will be too late—this invasion force will reach Tethys and raze it to the ground._

_I beg you, my King, to send this message to Athellenas with all possible speed. Have him send reinforcements west to the capital. He is the only one who can save you now, but you must act very swiftly._

_Saradomin protect us all._

**_Iulus Fernandos, Praetor_**

* * *

_Athellenas Imperator_

_If you have not already read the other note, please do so now. If you have, then you know what is at stake. I am not asking you to abandon the eastern defenses, but I must request that you send a portion of your army back here to the capital. That is the only way we will be able to hold against the Dark One's hordes._

_I am aware that it is forbidden to bring a Legion into Tethys, but do not trouble yourself over this. The Consuls will make a fuss, but even they will still their tongues when they see Zamorak's forces arrive at our walls. All I ask is that you send these reinforcements immediately. I will not order you to do so, but I do not believe I need to. You know what is at stake just as well as I._

_Fortune favor you, Imperator._

_We will all need it._

* * *

The second note had no signature, but Athellenas knew that it had come from the King. The Warmaster recognized Osman's handwriting anywhere. He was silent as he finished the notes, pushing them across the table for Anesti and Derren to read. When they finished, a hushed silence had fallen over the tent's interior once more.

Finally, Athellenas crossed to his desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment of his own, dipping his quill into the inkwell. He took the next half-minute and drew up a new set of orders. He intended to pull the IV, V, VII, and XII Legions from the lines and send them to Tethys. He would also promote Lucius Incendis Sinclair to the rank of _Dux,_ which was a temporary General rank created for instances like now, when the Warmaster had to place another man in charge of multiple legions.

Once he was done, he handed them over to Sir Derren. "Get these to the clerks and have them sent out to Generals Sinclair, Aemon, Theodoros, and Cassius. And while you are there, draft an order for the XI Legion to move to Mattinse Ridge—they will take the IV Legion's place."

"_Imperator,_" Sir Derren saluted before leaving.

Athellenas then dismissed Meridius. He took out another piece of parchment and scrawled a quick note, briefly detailing his orders to King Osman. He sealed those orders in an envelope of his own and handed them to Dio. "Give this response to the King."

"Your will, Imperator," Dio clasped his fist to his heart and left.

Athellenas was now left alone with Paladin Anesti. The Warmaster, still at his desk, took out one last piece of parchment, and drafted his final order. This last paper was the official documentation for General Sinclair's promotion to Dux. He would have the clerks duplicate it, sending one copy to the Forum for their approval—which was little more than a formality—and another to Sinclair himself.

When he was finished, he put the quill back into the inkwell, and allowed himself a few moments of sweet, blissful silence. "How are we going to survive this winter, Anesti?" the Warmaster finally spoke. "Enemies to the east, enemies to the north… Lord Fernando has secured the aid of the Ainu, but they will not be here until spring. It would be suicide to cross the Mare Orientale during the winter storms… When Zamorak's forces surround Tethys, we will lose communication with the capital…"

"The Legions will do their part," the Paladin heard himself saying. "Stellantae will not fall."

"Perhaps…" the Warmaster rubbed his temples and allowed himself a quick yawn. "What we need is a preemptive strike. We need to deal with the threat from the east, and we must do so quickly. General Sinclair is an excellent leader, but even he cannot hope to hold Tethys forever. He will need our help…"

"One thing at a time, Athellenas," Anesti suggested. "You have taken measures to hold Tethys. Allow yourself a moment's rest before worrying about what is to come."

Athellenas rose to his feet, picking up his helmet. "I shall call a council of war later tonight, and we will decide how to proceed then. In the meantime… I would have words with Jerrod. There are questions I have for him... Some of what the Praetor has said in his message coincides with certain things that the Lightbringer told me before we embarked on the Desert Campaign."

"Concerning that prophecy?" Anesti arched an eyebrow.

"Aye, concerning that prophecy," the Warmaster nodded, pulling aside the entrance flap. "Will you be joining us at the council tonight?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," the Paladin replied.

Athellenas gave the Paladin a quick nod before taking his leave. It was sleeting outside, and the wind had picked up. The Warmaster drew his cloak about himself and made his way across the compound, exchanging the occasional salute with passersby. He passed by the stables and the living spaces, entering the medical compound. Even now, he could hear the groans of wounded legionaries, and the sounds of surgeons and healers hard at work.

Athellenas headed to the smallest of the recovery tents, where Meridius waited for him. He exchanged salutes with the chief medicus. "Has he been moved?" the Warmaster asked.

"He has been removed to one of the corners, to afford him some measure of privacy," Meridius replied. "I believe you are the only reason he has not stormed out of here—he would have words with you."

"I would have them with him, as well," Athellenas brushed past the chief medicus, moving along the rows of wounded soldiers. Many of them were unconscious, and some of the awake ones simply stared blankly into the ceiling. There were a few men who were lucid enough to attempt a salute, and Athellenas made sure he personally returned each one of those salutes.

Though Athellenas knew that a commander had to accept the fact that men under his command would die…the Warmaster had always had a very soft spot for his wounded. Perhaps this was why he disliked visiting the hospitals so much.

Jerrod's cot had been moved to a corner of the tent and placed behind a curtain. Athellenas could see a figure moving about on the other side of the curtain, and his breath caught in his throat as he drew it aside.

Jerrod was already standing up, shrugging into his black cloak. He turned around, hearing the curtain being drawn aside, and met the Warmaster's gaze. For once in his life, the Cleric was silent as he met his oldest friend's gaze. No joking conversation, no witty retort…just silence. Athellenas could tell that something had changed in his friend just by looking into his eyes—the Cleric's old spark was still there…but it seemed so much more diminished.

Ultimately, neither friend broke the silence. Instead, they both stepped forward at the same time, each man pulling the other into a firm embrace. They remained thus for at least half a minute before finally pulling away. "You're supposed to be dead," was the only thing Athellenas found himself able to say.

"Sorry to disappoint," the Cleric grunted, pulling his staff out from under his cot, laying it flat on top of the bed.

"No apologies necessary," Athellenas chuckled.

Jerrod paused at that for a moment, but quickly returned to packing his personal effects. "No, I fear apologies _are_ necessary…" he murmured. "Not to you, however."

"Do you intend to leave here?"

Jerrod nodded in reply. "Saradomin has healed my body completely—I do not require any more medical attention."

"I do not expect you to remain here and fight with me," Athellenas said to his friend as the Cleric shouldered his satchel and stepped out of his makeshift room, making his way towards the entrance flap of the giant recovery tent. "However, I would have words with you before your departure. There is something we must speak about."

"Throw in some mead, and you'll have yourself a deal."

"It is funny you should mention that, actually, because I have a cask right under my cot," Athellenas mused, leading his friend out of the medical compound and into the living sector. His tent was located in the center of the residential portion of the command camp. The Warmaster brushed through the entrance flap, the Cleric hot on his heels.

The two older men took a moment to remove their outer layers and shake off the cold. Athellenas pulled the promised cask of mead out from under his cot, producing two wooden cups and filling them up with the frothing brew.

"_Ah…_ That is some liquid heaven you have there," Jerrod sighed as he took his first drink, sinking down into one of the Warmaster's chairs.

Athellenas sat down on the foot of his bed, taking a sip from his own cup. He dribbled a little onto his beard, which had gotten rather bushy as of late due to the lack of free time for him to trim it. He wiped the mead off his bear with his arm, smacking his belly appreciatively. "That it is, old friend… I save it for special occasions. Last time I drank from this was when the elder-demon Thammaron met his end. Now I drink to my oldest friend returning from the dead. Truly, it is a great relief to me that you are well."

"And what of you, old friend?" Jerrod asked. "I hear the men call you _Imperator,_ now. You must have been busy."

"I do wish they would not call me that," the Warmaster sighed. "I have won no great victories for them. Victory in the desert was achieved only with the intervention and assistance of the Mahjarrat Azzanadra, and even then…the Menaphites were nearly destroyed. That campaign was a failure in that regard. Then the campaign in the east...Hallowvale had already fallen by the time we arrived. The vampyres, they were everywhere. That entire campaign was nothing more than a long, slow retreat through the swamps. I should not be labeled _Imperator_ for this, for victories that either were not my own, or never even happened."

"Well, it does not sound like the soldiers will _stop_ calling you that anytime soon, so it seems that you will simply have to suck it up," Jerrod remarked, taking another draught of mead. "Do you believe a man unworthy of the title _Imperator_ could have led over ten-thousand men through the desert and the east, and then manage to bring the majority of them back home alive?"

"I… Well, I suppose not…"

"There it is!" Jerrod's mouth split open into a wide grin. "A nice helping of self-confidence. Now we'll just sprinkle a little arrogance on top of that, and you'll be the best general Gielinor's ever seen."

The two old friends continued to converse for the next few minutes, making small talk with one another. Jerrod asked a lot about what Athellenas had been through—after all, the last time the Cleric had seen his old friend had been in the north of the Kharidian Desert…well over six months ago. And in times like these, a lot could happen in six months.

It was only after talking with his old friend for a while that Athellenas turned the conversation to more serious matters. "Remember that one night on the _Resolute,_ Admiral Straume's ship? Not long after we left Port Sarim for the desert?"

Jerrod snorted with laughter. "It would take a lot more mead to make me forget the night I managed to get you drunk enough to play _Noble Green Rabbit_ on your fiddle, in front of the entire crew."

A faint twinkle came to Athellenas's eyes as he took a moment to relive that memory. "Yes, it was an enjoyable night…something we all needed before plunging into battle. But it was after the festivities, when I joined you on the deck, before the sunrise… I asked you why you were going into the desert, and you told me. You spoke of a boy and a prophecy…" the Warmaster noted the tightening of the Cleric's jaw as he brought up this particular topic. "Just earlier today, I received a message from the King, who in turn received word from the Praetor, who is still in the Ainu Empire. The Sun Emperor was under the possession of Zamorak for a time, but he was able to see into the Dark One's thoughts and glean bits and pieces of Zamorak's plans. And do you know what the Sun Emperor spoke of? He spoke of a second invasion entering Centralia from the north…and then he spoke of a prophecy, and of a boy. A boy who was travelling with Jerrod the Lightbringer. _You_."

Jerrod said nothing in reply.

Athellenas waited for his friend to speak. When Jerrod remained silent, the Warmaster went on. "I know that boy was a Mahjarrat, old friend. We both know what the Prophecy says about him—he must be kept safe. Taken to Karamja, perhaps, to continue his training until he is ready to join our fight."

"His name is Avis…" Jerrod murmured. "And I did not discover he was a Mahjarrat until long after I parted ways with you. Avis _himself_ did not know what he really was until I told him. He was raised in Ullek, you see. Raised as a Human, _by_ Humans…he was no different from any other boy, apart from his ability to use and cast magic without the use of runestones. He had skin as pale as a vampyre, crimson eyes like the rest of his race, and a wonderful smile…it always used to make my day, seeing him smile when I stopped our training for dinner. He loved to talk, and his curiosity was borderline problematic…it would drive me crazy, listening to his chatter day after day after day, but now…now, there's only silence. It is curious, how easy it is to take something for granted until it is taken away from you."

"Where is he, Jerrod?"

The Cleric could only shrug. "Gone," he replied, finishing off his mead. "Taken. It was Enakhra, Avis's mother, who shot me with that arrow. It was Zemouregal, Zamorak's dog, who took him. I watched them subdue him as I bled out. He lost consciousness before I did, and I saw them take him away."

Athellenas gave a confirming nod. "I'd feared as much… A patrol from the IV Legion spotted the signs of your fight with these two Mahjarrat. They arrived just in time to keep the Mahjarrat from finishing you off, but the sergeant leading the patrol reported that the two Mahjarrat had captured a child and made off with him. So _that_ was how a patrol of legionaries drove off two Mahjarrat…the Mahjarrat already had what they came for..."

"Indeed they did," Jerrod's voice took a darker tone.

"Now you know I am not one to place all my stock in prophecies," Athellenas reminded his old friend, "but if this child is supposed to end this war, then it would behoove us to…extricate him from Zamorak's clutches. We cannot afford to leave such a potentially valuable asset in the hands of the enemy."

Jerrod turned his gaze back to the Warmaster, but this time it was a look of anger. "Yes, we would not want Zamorak to have such a valuable asset, would we," he muttered.

"Find you fault with my reasoning?" Athellenas asked, somewhat surprised at his old friend's sudden hostility.

"Is that all the boy is to you? An asset? A pawn to be moved about your chessboard?"

"That is unfair," the Warmaster shot back. "You know the depth of my love for my men. But when battle rears its head at us, I must not think of them as men—I must think of them as Legions, as machines of war. Every leader of warriors must do this…and those who do not will quickly find themselves divorced from sanity. And so, from my point of view, this boy is not a child—he is a vessel of a power too great to be left in enemy hands."

Jerrod's gaze softened a little, but not by much. Still…Athellenas knew his old friend well enough to know how far that slight change of expression went. "Perhaps I spoke hastily," Jerrod said in apology.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Athellenas sighed. "You are partially right; the boy _is_ a potential asset to our war effort…but that is not the root of the issue. He is in Zamorak's clutches, now. What if the Dark One corrupts him, breaks his mind? What if this boy is driven insane and unleashed against us? If this happens, hundreds, thousands of my men will die. And if this prophecy is true, then we will lose the war. Jerrod, my friend…that is unacceptable. This is something we cannot allow to happen."

Jerrod's gaze and expression did not waver. "Agreed," he said. "We must rescue him before he breaks. I know not where the Dark One holds him, but there is someone who dwells in the shadows, who I know could easily find Avis's prison. It is this individual who I must seek out."

"I pray this course of action proves fruitful," Athellenas gave a nod, but he was not finished. "Notify me when you have discerned the boy's location. And keep in mind…when you find the boy, he may be beyond our help. If this is the case…then you must do what is necessary."

Jerrod's eyes narrowed for a moment. "What is necessary?" the Cleric echoed. "And just what mean you by this?"

"You know my intent."

"I would hear you say it."

Athellenas stifled a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. "If the boy's mind is broken, if he is irrevocably set against our purpose, then you must kill him, Jerrod," the Warmaster declared. "You must kill him before he brings death raining down upon us all."

"I believe we are done here," Jerrod rose to his feet, slipping back into his cloak and taking up his staff.

Athellenas rose to his feet as well, moving toward his old friend. "I would not part company on a sour note, Jerrod; we have been through too much for that."

Jerrod hesitated by the tent flap, his thoughts plainly wirling through his mind in a chaotic maelstrom. Finally, he calmed himself down and turned back to face the Warmaster. "We both have always known what a poor mage you would be, Athellenas…but perhaps now we can see what a poor general _I_ would make." And with that, the Cleric extended a hand.

Athellenas recognized the olive branch for what it was, and he clasped forearms with his oldest friend. "Fortune favor you, Lightbringer."

"And you as well," Jerrod replied. Without another word, the Cleric turned on his heel and ducked out of the tent, leaving Athellenas by himself for a few moments.

The Warmaster gathered his dark red cloak about himself as he stepped out into the sleet, watching the Cleric make his way across the compound.

"Bit of a loose cannon, now, is he not?"

Athellenas nearly jumped in surprise as he heard Anesti's voice from behind. The Warmaster turned around, seeing Anesti standing right next to the entrance flap. Athellenas had walked right past him without noticing. "Eavesdropping, were you?" the Warmaster asked accusingly.

"I was, but that is irrelevant," the Paladin replied, stepping forward so that he was shoulder-to-shoulder with the Warmaster. Together, the two men started heading after Jerrod. "We are two very different men, Imperator, but we share thoughts and opinions concerning the good Lightbringer."

"Speak plainly, Paladin, or keep silent."

Anesti arched an eyebrow at Athellenas's forthrightness, but had no other outward reaction. "Let us be honest with each other. It is very likely the child of the prophecy will be…_damaged,_ before the Lightbringer can find him. And I do not believe Jerrod will be able to kill him when the time comes."

Loath as he was to admit it, Athellenas had to agree with the Paladin. From what he had just seen of his old friend, the Warmaster had his own doubts about the Cleric's resolve. Jerrod had obviously spent a lot of time with this boy, this Avis…and Athellenas knew Jerrod well enough to know that the Cleric would most definitely have formed a strong emotional attachment in that time. Jerrod's recollection of the boy's smile, for one, was evidence of this.

"Ah, yes…I can see the agreement in your face," Anesti observed. "That settles that, then. With your permission, I would accompany the Lightbringer on his quest. If he wavers in his resolve…rest assured that I shall _not_."

"You have my permission," Athellenas sighed. As the Paladin nodded and turned to move away, the Warmaster grasped him by the arm. "And if I were you, I would refrain from mentioning what we have just spoken of. Jerrod most likely would not react amicably to such conversation."

Anesti actually exchanged a salute with the Warmaster—something the Paladin rarely ever did—and stalked off into the sleet and rain, drawing his hood over his head and face as he set off in pursuit of the Cleric.

Athellenas watched him go until he lost sight of the Paladin. The Warmaster allowed himself a quick yawn and stretch before heading off in the direction of the command tent. General Sinclair _Dux_ would no doubt be waiting to see him, wishing to discuss his promotion with the Warmaster personally. It was a very radical and unusual order—the Warmaster would not blame Sinclair for seeking confirmation.

"Could use another belt of mead…" the Warmaster grumbled, tightening the top of the cloak around his neck.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_(A response to cba2login's question)_

_Yes, when I say I am working on two stories in concert, I mean I am working on them at the same time. Unfortunately, it is not so simple a method as completing a chapter for one story, then writing one for the other. I write for one story until I get tired of it, at which point I start writing for the other story. Sometimes, with this system of writing, I end up switching to another story before even finishing a chapter. I write a portion of a chapter for story 2, then I switch back to story 1. I do this until a chapter is completed, at which point I start a new one. This means that updates can be a bit slow, but both stories are being worked on relatively equally. What usually happens is that updates are slower, but story 1 and story 2 (in this case, they would be Growing Darkness and Ashes to Ashes, Grist to Grist) end up having new chapters completed at pretty much the same time._

_But yeah, writer's block is no longer a real problem for this story. I already know how it will end, as well as how I will arrive at said ending. It is just a matter of finding the free time hidden in my schedule._

_-TheAmateur_


	27. Chapter 27: Pest Problem

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Pest Problem

Avis could not even feel the pain in his stomach, anymore. His sense of time had been one of the first things to go—he did not know if he'd been locked in this room for a day, a week, or a month. Every so often, some food and a small amount of water were sent into his room. It was not enough to satisfy his hunger or thirst…but it _was_ enough to keep him alive.

At first, he'd tried several times to break out of the room with magic…however, every time he invoked the elements, the collar spell that his mother had placed on him would react, violently choking him until he released the magic.

And so, he'd waited. And waited. …and waited.

He'd expected someone to come in and beat him, or rake him over a bed of coals, or cut him up with a blade, or…well, _something_. If he was really so important to Zamorak…well, he hadn't expected to be tossed into a room with an altar and left to rot.

The boy had shouted a lot, too. Be it rage directed towards his jailors, laments toward himself, pleas towards his lost mentor; he'd gone on almost nonstop, at first, screaming until his throat felt like a bleeding desert.

No one ever answered.

Eventually, Avis gave into his weariness and opted for resting against the door…only to discover that his collar spell would not allow him to sleep, either. He would nod off, his eyes would close…and suddenly his throat would be filled with fire.

After a while of this, Avis eventually stopped eating. It was a bit of a gamble he was taking—he did not want to starve to death, but he was willing to bet that his captors did not want that, either. He was willing to bet that they would take notice of him if he started to place his own life in jeopardy.

It bothered Avis, at first, not being able to know how long he had been imprisoned in the drafty upstairs room; all alone with the chaos altar, the spiderweb in the corner of the ceiling, the large knot in the wood of the wall behind the altar, the small crack in one of the marble tiles that made up the floor, and every single other minute detail of the room that Avis had picked out during his captivity.

There was only one thing that had kept Avis relatively sane in his delirious state of starvation, thirst, and sleep deprivation—the Whisper. Avis was fairly sure it was a figment of his imagination, but he did not care enough to question. A voice was still a voice, whether real or imagined. And another voice was something he welcomed dearly.

And so, Avis was not startled when he heard the Whisper speak to him once again. "Today's the day," it said.

The Whisper had started out as just that—a whisper. But as time dragged on, Avis started seeing manifestations. A mouth in the wall. An orb of light that cast no shadows. A golden scarab beetle. Today, it was a rose growing out of one of the stone walls.

"Today's the day?" Avis asked the rose. His speech was slurred from his sleep deprivation-induced delirium.

"Your first step to freedom," the Whisper replied.

All Avis could do was stare at the rose and smile. "Freedom?" the Mahjarrat youngling giggled. "Freedom, you said? I knew it… I've lost my mind. A rose is whispering to me about freedom."

"You take your first step today…_today_…" the Whisper faded away on that last word.

As Avis watched, the rose spread its petals into full bloom, and additional buds started to sprout all around it. A piece of the wall fell away, pushed out by the blooming bush of roses. Another chunk of masonry crashed to the floor, and another, and another, until Avis could see sunlight shining through.

The boy crawled forward, slowly pushing himself to his feet, staring out through the hole in the wall. The vine of roses climbed up into the brilliant blue sky, up towards a bright golden light. The light pulsed with a warm radiance, inviting Avis to climb up to it. The boy obliged, extending a hand and grasping the vine.

His quivering hands stilled as he grabbed the mysterious vine, and Avis found a new strength surging through his muscles, and he ascended upwards along the giant rose vine without even really climbing it. He closed his eyes as he rose upward, basking in the warmth of the sun-like golden brilliance. He started to open his eyes to gaze at the wonder…only to be seized by a sudden, fiery choking sensation that filled his throat.

Avis opened his eyes to the view of the upstairs altar room's ceiling, his hands flying to his neck even as the fire in his throat subsided. It was that damned Collar Spell, or whatever his mother had called it… It was really proving to be the bane of Avis's existence. It had just woken him up as he teetered yet again on the brink of sleep.

Avis cast his eyes back over to the far wall…but the roses and the vine were gone. The wall was intact. There was no voice. And so Avis would normally settle back, brushing all memory of the whisper and the hallucination away…only to hear the voice again, and come to the conclusion that the Whisper was just a true figment of his imagination. He would then hear it again, in a long or short while, and would begin the cycle again until experiencing another hallucination.

But this time, after the hallucination ended, after the roses vanished and the Collar choked him back awake…the Whisper spoke to Avis once more, before the boy's doubts could be cemented. "Pray to him, child," the Whisper filled the dark, hazy spaces of Avis's mind. "Your first step…towards freedom… Pray to him, child."

Avis gazed at the chaos altar, at the unholy symbol of Zamorak that was fixed on the top. "My first step to freedom…" the boy murmured. Perhaps it was time for him to play his captors' game, for a time. After all, if he was ever to escape this place, he would never be able to do it if he was still locked up in this room. And so…

_Alright, you want my prayers?_ Avis silently asked the chaos altar. _I'll give you my prayers. I pray you tell your dogs to release me from my prison, before I allow myself to pass from this world to the next. If it is my soul you want, you won't get it this way._

Avis took in another deep breath, trying to relax. It was hard for him to calm his mind enough to actually achieve some measure of relaxation, but he managed to do so after several long minutes…or maybe several long hours—he could not tell. And even then, his relaxation dipped down into the realms of sleep…causing the Collar spell to drag him choking back into the waking world by his throat.

Avis crawled across the room and sat back against the chaos altar so that he would not have to continue staring at it. After another long stretch of silence, Avis realized that he had started to sing. He was singing in Arrish, the tongue of the desert…and he instantly recognized the tune. It was an old Menaphite lullaby, sung by parents to children who had trouble finding sleep. Farrah al-Ibn had sung it to Avis many times when he was little—Avis had never been able to exactly remember how it went…until now.

"You speak in the tongue of the sand-dwellers," someone said in Arrish.

Avis looked up and saw that the door…the door was miraculously open. There was a world beyond this room, and Avis was finally getting a glimpse of it. And in the doorway…there stood a tall, muscular man. He had a yellowish-blond beard that was tied into forks, almost like a man from the Fremennik Territories, pale skin…and crimson eyes.

_Mahjarrat_.

"I speak my own language," Avis replied, switching from Arrish to Commonspeak. "But I will not speak it with you."

"I did not expect to find you weeping, youngling," the Mahjarrat remarked. "This is not our way."

Avis absentmindedly brought a finger to his cheek, not all that surprised when it came away wet. "Our way…" he murmured. "We may be of the same race, but I have nothing else in common with you. Don't try and pretend that I do."

"Well, lucky for me, I am not trying to win your heart and mind," the bearded Mahjarrat shrugged. He clenched his fist and thrust it forward, sending a blast of fire into the floor right in front of Avis, prompting the boy to spring to his feet. "I am here to make you fight like a true Mahjarrat. The elements thrive within you. It is time to unleash them."

* * *

Enakhra relaxed on the roof of the chaos temple. She sat in a chair with a reclining back, resting her feet on a cushion, sipping from a goblet of wine. She watched the volcano in the distance as it continued to spew more lava into the air. The lava flowed down its western slope and into a deep gully, channeling the lava into a river of sorts. The chaos temple was built on a hill in the middle of a deep basin, which the river of lava flowed into, forming a lake, forming the moat of lava that surrounded the temple.

It was not the most beautiful sight that Enakhra had laid her eyes on…but the she-Mahjarrat was rather limited in what she could relax and gaze at when she was in the middle of the Wilderness. The next best thing would be to sit inside the temple, and she harbored no great love of staying indoors. And there were times when she could find the combination of lava and wine to be relaxing…whether or not this was one of those times remained yet to be seen.

But regardless, it would not be too much of a stretch to say that Enakhra was not enjoying herself at the moment. She took another sip of wine, watching the lake of lava that surrounded the temple as it bubbled and hissed. She enjoyed it the most when a revenant creature or a zombie—the Wilderness was infested with that kind of filth—came into the area and ended up wading _into_ the lava. It did not happen very often, but when it did…well, she always enjoyed having a good laugh, especially in this day and age where laughter and mirth were such strangers.

"I've always loved the smell of lava, myself," Zemouregal flashed Enakhra a cheerful grin as he appeared from nowhere, disturbing her peace, plopping down a chair of his own.

"It smells like shit," Enakhra remarked, the corners of her mouth tugging downward into a scowl. "Have you nothing better to do than irritate me like a common pest?"

"Even if it were possible for anything to be more enjoyable than irritating you... _No, _I do not have anything else to do, at the moment," Zemouregal replied, easing himself down into the chair. He then gave a small shrug, and added, "Well, I suppose irritating you is not my sole motive for joining you here. My primary motive, perhaps, but not my only one. Orders came in from the Necropolis, just a few minutes ago. Zamorak has ordered us to free the youngling from his confinement."

That piqued Enakhra's interest. It had been nearly a month since Enakhra had sealed her son away in the upstairs altar room, and she had spent most of the time since then settling herself into a routine. She'd needed to take her mind off of Avis. She had not expected Zamorak to command her to remain in the chaos temple to oversee her son's training. And though she would never voice her dissent…she did not enjoy subjecting her son to such treatment. Yes, Avis viewed her as a monster, and yes, he had been heavily corrupted by his upbringing among Humans…but he was still hers.

"He prayed, then?" Enakhra asked. "He prayed to Zamorak?"

Zemouregal gave a slight shrug. "Don't know, don't care. I'm just here to watch the show."

"Show?"

"Kharshai's taking the boy outside."

"Ah…"

As if on cue, the temple's doors opened, and Enakhra watched as Kharshai emerged, her son following close behind. The bearded Mahjarrat drew his sword and used it to draw a circle in the ground. He pointed to the circle and said something to Avis, but the boy did not move. Kharshai then stomped his foot, causing the ground under Avis to burst upwards, sending the boy sailing through the air. He landed in the small circle drawn by the elder Mahjarrat.

"_Hah!_" Zemouregal snorted, settling back into his chair. "This will be entertaining, don't you think? Hm? Enakhra?"

Zemouregal glanced over to the side, but Enakhra had gone, leaving her chair behind. The Mahjarrat turned his attention back to Kharshai's 'training' session, trying to keep the disappointment from showing on his face.

* * *

The old Menaphite was flying.

He felt the wind in his face, the smell of the river below, the golden warmth of the sun. He opened his eyes, gazed down at the sparkling water below as he sped through the air, along the river's path. As he looked around, he saw that he was not alone—there was another man flying alongside him. The other man was much younger than his elder companion—in his late thirties, early forties. His tattoos and overall physique indicated that he was a Qaratai, a soldier.

Eventually, the old man and the soldier came to an island. There was a golden pyramid, a ring of trees bearing fruit that shined like the sun, and beaches laden with sunbathing crocodiles. They soared over the beach and the woods, slowing down and gently descending towards the top of the golden pyramid.

It was a temple; that much was obvious. The old man and the soldier set foot inside, beholding a beautiful woman in yellowish-white desert robes, with vibrant blue flesh. Her body seemed to give off a soft glow the same color as her flesh, giving her the appearance of light shining through water.

Her eyes flared a piercing cyan, and she extended her arms to the two Menaphites. "_Come_…"

Farrah al-Ibn's eyes snapped open. It was still nighttime, long before dawn. He'd only been sleeping for three or four hours. The old man took a deep breath, sitting up in his cot, rubbing his eyes blearily. That was when he heard the thing that had woken him up—alarm bells. A horn sounded somewhere in the distance.

This was not the first time those alarm bells had sounded—Farrah already knew what was coming.

"_Kalphites!_" the old man roared, grabbing his _saif_ blade and swiftly throwing on the chainmail suit that he usually wore beneath his robes. He then strode out of his room and into the main chamber, where the children were sleeping. Farrah called out to the older orphans, the ones in their pre-teen years. "Rashid! Ranya! Zaeed! Khaliq! Nadiyya! Get everyone down below, and seal yourselves in!"

While the older kids herded their peers down the stairs and into the basement chamber, which could be sealed with a heavy stone door, the two oldest orphans joined Farrah as he stepped outside through the giant double-doors, out into the crisp desert night.

Jafa and Lessa were the first two orphans who Farrah had taken in, back in Ullek, nearly fifteen years ago. He'd taken in nearly a dozen more over the next decade—children who would live thieving in the streets by day, and under Farrah's old antique shop at night. Then the demons and their underlings had attacked Ullek, and Farrah had taken his orphans and fled into the sewers. Even as the city burned above them, they escaped into the tunnel system that extended out beyond Ullek's walls.

Due to the fighting above, the tunnels of Ullek were denied light or ventilation, and cave-ins had been common. More than once, Farrah had had to navigate around blocked passageways, and they had spent what seemed like an eternity lost in the darkness. Many of Ullek's citizens—the lucky ones who managed to avoid getting butchered in the street—had also fled into the tunnel system, and many never re-emerged. Some were killed directly by the cave-ins, many more died of thirst much later, after having been trapped. Disease became common in the sewers and tunnels, as well.

Farrah's orphans had been the ones to discover the natural tunnels that emerged from the mountains to the west. Farrah remembered with great fondness the day he had emerged from the tunnels into the daylight, breathing fresh air for the first time in weeks. Thousands of others had descended into the tunnels, but only a fraction of this number survived as far as the desert. Farrah had led a group of hundreds southwest to Sophanem, not thousands.

Still…there had been several additional waves of survivors that had reached the gates of Sophanem, as well as an almost steady trickle of stragglers. There were many more orphans who made it to Sophanem, having lost their parents in the battle or the subsequent escape. After things became too crowded in Sophanem and the opinion of the refugees started to sour, Farrah took his orphans across the River Elid to the western bank, where he occupied a deserted estate of some unknown Menaphite noble. Many refugees followed his example and moved out to the western bank, setting up camp. There were many more estates along the West Bank—Farrah later learned that they were summer homes owned by wealthy individuals mostly from Sophanem and Ullek. The refugees made themselves at home in these summer retreats towards the beginning of Autumn, after the summer homes' owners had returned to the city.

Farrah had originally thought there would be conflict when the owners of these homes tried to reclaim them next summer…but as more and more refugees joined the ever-growing camp on the West Bank, Farrah soon saw that if those nobles attacked the refugees, they would find themselves dealing with an angry mob the size of an army.

Food was not too much of an issue—hunters brought back various catches each night, and Elidinis provided more sustenance from the river that was her essence, allowing fishermen to pull many meals from her waters on an almost daily basis. The main issue was providing shelter from the cold desert nights to the several thousand refugees. Many of the refugees were lower-class citizens—the workers, craftsmen, and servants—and they began digging defenses around the perimeter of the settlement. They then took water from the River Elid, and they would mix it with the clay and earth that they had dug up. From these ingredients, they would fashion crude bricks, created after having been heated up to a very high temperature.

With this continuous production of bricks underway, many more dwellings and shelters had been built, and work was going to begin on a protective wall to surround this proto-city of refugees. This was due the largest threat to the refugees—the Kalphites.

The sentient, hive-minded race of insects, who had dwelled originally in the lands far to the northwest, had also been driven south by the ferocity of the horde under Thammaron's command. Now, they had taken up residence somewhere nearby, and the refugee settlement would often find itself under attack by the race of intelligent insects.

And until a wall was finished, this would no doubt continue for a long time. Luckily, a small portion of the soldiers who had fought in the Fall of Ullek had managed to follow the civilians into the tunnels, and it was only through the efforts of these fighting men that the Kalphites did not wipe the refugees out back in the Autumn.

A Kalphite soldier was out on the pathway that ran from the orphanage-house to its next-door neighbor, where the Qarat warriors had established their headquarters. The refugees who dwelled in the smaller, new houses in the fringes of the settlement quickly made their way to the estates on the bank of the Elid—it was these individuals who the Kalphite soldier was attacking.

Farrah charged at the Kalphite soldier, sending a concentrated blast of fire through its shiny green carapace. The large insect-warrior keeled over to the side, screeching loudly. Jafa ran past Farrah and plunged his shortsword up into the soldier's less-protected underbelly, putting it out of its misery.

Farrah watched as a group of soldiers emerged from the Qarat headquarters house, moving the gun carriage that bore their only cannon. Normally, the Qarat would not have bothered deploying the cannon, but its ability to fire grapeshot was proving to be deadly effective against the swarms of Kalphites that attacked the settlement by night.

A tall, muscular man jogged in front of the cannon, barking out orders. He wore the armor and helm of a Guard Captain—he was the highest-ranking soldier that had survived the Fall of Ullek. Seeing as how Sophanem did not house a force of soldiers—being the city of priests—all of the soldiers in the area were survivors of the various battles that had driven them so far to the south. Many of them had ended up around Sophanem ever since Thammaron's first skirmishes up in the north. It had not been until the arrival of the survivors of Ullek that one of the remaining Qarat soldiers was a Guard Captain.

The Captain pulled all of the former soldiers into a single, small army, appointing his own officers and deputies. It sometimes occurred to Farrah how he was perhaps the only thing standing in the way of that Guard Captain ruling over the refugees like a Centralian Proconsul. The Captain had never shown to harbor any such ambitions, but Farrah could not help but wonder how differently things might have turned out if he had not made it to Sophanem.

Farrah, Jafa, and Lessa joined the Qarat soldiers at the Inner Perimeter, which was a line that had been established around the summer estates. It was the area that hugged, or was at least _near_ to the river—higher-elevated than the rest of the area east of the river, and therefore easier to defend. Every time the alarm bells rang, everyone who lived in the newly-constructed, westernmost parts of the settlement would drop everything, take up arms, and retreat to the Inner Perimeter. All the able refugees—Commoner and Qaratai alike—fought side-by-side to keep the attacking Kalphites from storming the West Bank. Those who _weren't_ able—the wounded, sick, the elderly, the children—all took shelter behind the Inner Perimter, praying that their stronger brethren were able to weather the storm.

Farrah made his way through the crowds of these noncombatants with his two oldest wards, joining the fray. The Qarat survivors had learned from their repeated encounters with these sentient insects. Those first few nights spent on the West Bank, when the settlement was at its smallest and weakest, the refugees' defenders had taken the most losses. Since then, under the direction of the Guard Captain, they had been adapting to the Kalphite's attacks.

The Guard Captain and Farrah had deemed who the most skilled archers were in the residents of the West Bank settlement, and they had split them all up. When they broke the defenders into teams, they made sure to station at least one archer in every group. A single, well-placed arrow could do to these creatures what hours of prolonged hacking with melee weapons could not.

Mages had always been rather scarce in the Menaphite Empire, and the same held true for the settlers of the West Bank. There were only two others, aside from Farrah, who could consider themselves mages, and they were not exactly the most skilled of mages, either.

Farrah used Fire the most while fighting these creatures. The Kalphites attacked at night, so Fire gave him constant illumination even as he attacked. Insects also instinctively recoiled from flame, and these Kalphite soldiers and workers were no exception.

Of Farrah's orphans, Jafa and Lessa were the only ones who ever took up arms, and Lessa was the only one who possessed any measure of skill with the bow. And so, Jafa would usually focus solely on defending Lessa, rather than going on the offensive himself, because Lessa was much more likely to kill a Kalphite with her bow than Jafa was to succeed with his blade.

The cannon had been taken to the line a short ways south of the hill where Farrah's orphanage stood. It always went to wherever the Kalphite attack was at its thickest. Even now, Farrah could hear the weapon discharging, sending hails of smaller projectiles tearing through the onslaught of insects.

An oncoming Kalphite soldier made its lunge towards Farrah, but a Qaratai stepped into the way, knocking aside the insect's mandibles with his shield. The other men in the Qaratai's platoon quickly distracted the Kalphite by surrounding it and cleaving at its legs. As the soldier moved to deal with the Qarat warriors, Farrah severed two of its legs with a concentrated sweep of fire, sending the Kalphite crashing to the ground. As it lay on the ground, winded, one of the Qarat warriors thrust a spear up through the underside of the Kalphite's throat.

The other Menaphite warriors were already moving on to the next Kalphite, and Farrah decided to let them have it. The cannon went off again, and the old man could just barely hear the screams of the shredded insects that had been unfortunate enough to get hit by the grapeshot. Farrah sidestepped a swipe from a Kalphite worker, bringing his _saif_ blade down onto the knee joint, cleanly severing the insect's leg. The old man finished off the worker with a well-aimed burst of fire before moving on to the next Kalphite.

The raid lasted only ten minutes, or so, but it felt like ten hours. The Kalphites had come tonight in stronger numbers than usual, their raids were becoming more and more frequent. A while ago, the raids had only happened once or twice a week, but they had been happening every other night, up until this past week. This past week, the raids had started to happen two nights at a time. There had been no raid last night, which meant that there was likely going to be another one tomorrow.

"Another night of fortune…" Farrah murmured after the last of the Kalphites fell or retreated.

"Night of fortune, you said?" one of the more senior Qarat warriors raised his eyebrows in surprise, his anger thinly-veiled. "I just lost three more members of my platoon—you would call this a night of fortune?"

"The Kalphites continue to send only workers and soldiers against our lines," Farrah explained. "Their Guardians do not yet move against us. Yes, I do consider it a night of fortune that this is not yet so."

The warriors got to work—hauling off the bodies of the slain Kalphites, piling them up, and burning them. The bodies of the warriors and commoners who lost their lives were also rounded up and buried. The number of losses had been higher tonight—thirteen warriors and nineteen commoners gone.

"_Bloody unacceptable_…" Farrah muttered, watching as the burial detail finished filling in the last of the graves.

"Hm?" Jafa asked, not hearing what the old man had said.

Farrah came back to his senses, laying his hands on Jafa and Lessa's shoulders. "You have fought well, both of you. Return to the house and get the young ones back to bed…it is still quite some time before sunrise."

"And you?"

"I would have words with the good Captain," Farrah replied. "The Gods are restless, and they seem to wish me to make acquaintance with him."

"Still doesn't seem right," Lessa did not sound convinced. "The man is evil. You know what he did with Avis, back in the city!"

"The man is not evil," Farrah shook his head. "He was a misguided, self-absorbed brute, yes…and some of the things he has done are nigh unforgivable, but none of us have come out of Ullek unscathed—him least of all."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it…" Lessa still was not convinced.

"Well, Fate seldom factors our wants and desires into its decisions," Farrah sighed. "Now, back to the house with you both. Look to the young ones."

And with that, Jafa took Lessa by the arm and pulled her off, heading back in the direction of the house. As for Farrah, he took to the paths and made his way to the house which the Qarat survivors had converted into their headquarters, located just north of Farrah's house-turned-shelter. There were never very many warriors in the headquarters house—it was mostly just for the Guard Captain, his subordinate officers, and their adjutants. The headquarters house also had a walled-off backyard, which was where the wounded Qarat soldiers lay.

There were two Qaratai guarding the house's entrance, but they allowed Farrah to pass—he was the only civilian who the guards would step aside for without question. The Guard Captain seemed to tolerate this, or else he would have ordered his sentries to deny Farrah entry, which he had not done.

Farrah walked down the front hallway, straight into the sunroom in the back, which was more or less equivalent to the family room or den of a Centralian home. Asef ad-Din, the veteran warrior who served as the Captain's second-in-command, was reading a casualty report to the Captain himself, who was sitting in one of the armchairs.

"…and Umar reported five total losses from his company," Asef finished his report. "This leaves us with thirty-two dead total, thirteen of them fighting men. The bugs hit us hard, tonight, sir."

The Guard Captain finished packing his pipe, lifted it to his mouth, lit it. After taking several deep puffs, burning through the false light, the Captain relit the pipe and started smoking it properly, exhaling in a puff of smoke. "Thank the Gods the bugs are not throwing their Guardians at us, at least… I hope that attacks of this intensity are going to be a rare thing."

"Well, you and I both know that they will not," Farrah al-Ibn interrupted, stepping forward and making his presence known. "Ever since we arrived here from the tunnels, ever since we settled the West Bank, the Kalphites' attacks have been increasing in both strength and frequency. Things will not get better—they will only get worse."

The Guard Captain glanced over to the old man, seeing him for the first time. "_Farrah al-Ibn,_" he nodded to the elder man in greeting.

"Jhabour al-Aziz," the old Menaphite returned the gesture.

"I am going to have to speak with the sentries, one of these days…" the Guard Captain muttered. He then took another puff and gestured for Farrah to speak. "What do you want, old man?"

"We need to make some changes, here," Farrah replied. "If the Kalphite attacks continue to intensify, we must focus all of our present efforts on constructing a wall around the Inner Perimeter. The commoners need someplace to fall back to that is secure. Most of the nineteen dead civilians were killed behind the Inner Perimeter by Kalphites that bypassed our defenses. Kalphites that make it this far can wreak untold amounts of havoc before your men can put them down."

"Not all of the refugees have a shelter, yet. The shelters we have already are overcrowded," Jhabour reminded the older man. "It's unwholesome, having them live like that."

"If we do not build defenses, they will not live at all."

Jhabour was silent for several moments, his piercing gaze not leaving the old Menaphite. Finally, he dismissed Asef and anyone else who happened to be in the same room, leaving him alone with Farrah. "I will speed the construction of the Inner Perimeter wall as much as I can, but you already know that I have considered these issues. What have you _really_ come to speak with me about?"

"Puzzling dreams," Farrah replied.

"Do I look like a medium to you?" the Guard Captain grunted. "If you have a dream that needs interpretation, speak with the priests."

"It is not one dream I have had; it is several…every night for the past two weeks," Farrah continued, unfazed by Jhabour's rebuff. "I dream of Elidinis, giver of life, who commands me to come to her. And in these dreams, you are by my side." Jhabour did not speak, but the expression in his eyes and face was enough for Farrah to make an important observation: "You have had these dreams, as well," the older man declared.

Jhabour remained silent for several moments, scrutinizing the older man with a gaze that would make a hawk blink. "Perhaps I have…" the Guard Captain finally gave Farrah an answer. "And how exactly do you intend to act upon these visions? Gods are not necessarily easy to find, you know. I would not even know where to start, if we were looking for Elidinis."

"Elidinis is the River—I believe we should search there," Farrah suggested. "In my dreams, we were flying north, upstream…so I believe it is time we made a flying carpet."


End file.
